


I Knew Him

by collegefangirl3791



Series: I Knew Him Universe [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Complicated PTSD, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Needs Therapy, Flashbacks, Frankly all these characters need help, Gen, I'm Sorry, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Okay look Bucky is totally screwed up, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve plays guitar, Suicide Attempt, Things are not nice, and chocolate, and has PTSD, and i love them, and maybe a vacation, and needs a hug, but I'm not nice to them, but they will get better, i hate him, plums, probably, romanogers if you squint, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 86,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6990166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collegefangirl3791/pseuds/collegefangirl3791
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky comes to kill Steve, but Steve convinces his friend that he's his handler. Now he, and the other Avengers, have to help the Winter Soldier remember who he is (and recover from his memories), while fighting off Hydra and placating the government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The man on the bridge... I knew him." - Bucky Barnes

Steven Grant Rogers woke up with a start, half-panicked for a moment before registering where he was. Sighing, he closed his eyes briefly and took a few steadying breaths. He'd been having nightmares more and more frequently since taking down SHIELD: at least one every night, if not more.

He hadn't started looking for Bucky yet, at least not really, because he and Sam hadn’t been able to find any good leads. There wasn’t a sign of him anywhere, not on social media, not amongst the intelligence community, not on national security footage. The only tracks he’d left were the footprints on the bank of the Potomac all those months earlier.

Steve was afraid that Bucky might have been recaptured or gone back to Hydra on his own, and he found himself growing increasingly frustrated with not knowing if that was the case. Although Sam understood, he thought Steve’s frustration was amusing, and said so at every opportunity. And there were plenty of opportunities, because he’d invited Steve to stay with him so that the super soldier could stay in D.C. without spending a small fortune on rent.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, sighing and sitting up slowly. He had made a habit out of sketching after his bad nightmares, and he’d already filled several notebooks with the products of his insomnia. Swinging his legs out of bed, he flicked on his lamp and dug through the drawer of his bedside table for his sketchbook and pencils.

He flipped past some recent drawings of his teammates to a fresh page, hesitated for a moment, and then began tracing an outline of his old apartment in Brooklyn, since it had been featured rather negatively in his most recent nightmare. Strange how even after all this time he could remember the details so clearly.

He paid very little attention to how accurate the sketch was, letting his hand move mostly on his own and letting the familiar actions soothe him. Finishing the building itself, he looked at it critically, then smiled and drew the little black cat that used to come by begging for scraps. Satisfied and feeling more at ease, he set the sketchbook down on the bedside table and flicked the lights off. Then he lay back down, curling up under the blankets, and closed his eyes. He went back to sleep, this time dreaming of nothing but vague lights and colors that might have meant something to him once.

* * *

 

The Asset was watching the Captain. Mind in turmoil, he followed the blond, muscular man from a distance, gun always in hand. Again and again he had the perfect opportunity to take the shot, to eliminate his target, but the same voice that prompted him to save the Captain's life after the destruction of Project Insight told him not to shoot. He didn't understand why. Just because James Barnes, the weakling soldier that he'd been years ago, was friends with this man didn't mean he had to be. He couldn't afford to care. He couldn't afford to let him live. He had to kill him for the good of Hydra. But… he knew him.

It always came back to that. It was so much easier when he felt no emotion, when his handler had told him what to do and he did it. But suddenly he had memories that he didn't know how to deal with. Memories of a train, and cold, and Zola. If he went back to Hydra, they could stop the pain the memories brought. They could get rid of these terrifying emotions he was experiencing. He would be punished, yes, but he understood physical pain. Physical pain made sense, because it was never without reason. But this experience, this heartbreak and loss and confusion and _why can't I remember_ was new, and it was pointless. He could learn nothing from it. It would not help him to be a better Asset. Why did it hurt so badly? And why couldn't anything he did make it stop?

Hydra. He wanted to go back. He did. But every time he tried to complete his mission so that he could, something stopped him. Which led him to question who the Captain was, really. He shouldn't be this reluctant to kill a target just because he knew him once, should he? He thought it over as best as he could, and came to the conclusion that the Captain must be his handler. He wasn't supposed to harm his handler, he knew that. Perhaps this was some kind of test. He didn't understand…

He watched the house, his sniper rifle within easy reach. He knew that his target – his handler? – was awake now. The light was on behind the thick curtains. Normal people weren't awake at this time of night because they needed sleep to function, whereas he usually did not. He was a weapon. Weapons didn't need sleep.

He watched until the light turned off again, then waited another hour before leaving the roof he crouched on and approaching the house. It was easy for him to crush the lock with his metal fist and go inside, ignoring the kitchen and the living room and heading upstairs, where he could find the Captain's room.

The door opened almost silently, and the Asset slipped in, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously. The room was modestly furnished. Everything was pale in color, and the only furniture was the dresser, the bedside table, the bed itself, and a desk with a large chair next to it. He touched nothing, simply cataloguing everything and noting advantages and disadvantages in the room. The bed was occupied by his target, who was asleep. He sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall, waiting for the man to wake up.

* * *

 

Steve awoke slowly. The sun was streaming in through the curtains, and he was warm and so, so comfortable. He stretched, yawning, then turned over and dragged the comforter over his face, trying to go back to sleep. It took him a minute to sense that something was different from when he'd fallen asleep. He peered out from under the blanket and saw his door sitting slightly ajar. His half-asleep mind jolted awake, and he very slowly stretched and sat up, trying to act as if he hadn't noticed. After all, it was possible (if unlikely) that Sam had come in to check on him this morning and left the door open once he went out.

He almost didn't notice the dark figure seated by the desk, but once he did he froze. He stared at Bucky, and the Soldier stared back, silent and still. He was sitting up, ramrod straight, eyes blank and angry and confused.

Steve stayed on his bed for a moment, not wanting to provoke an attack by getting up. He watched Bucky warily, eyes darting briefly to his shield and wondering if he'd be able to reach it in time if the Soldier came after him.

Finally he swung his legs over the edge of his bed and got to his feet, moving slowly and not taking his eyes off the Soldier, whose gray eyes were following him with distrust. "What are you-" Steve cleared his throat when his voice cracked. "What are you doing here, Bucky?" he asked.

The Soldier focused on his face. "I'm here to kill you," he answered, but there was no conviction in his voice. He watched Steve uncertainly, as if hoping he'd given the right answer.

"Why?" Steve asked carefully, unconsciously holding his hands out in front of him, palms down, in a placating gesture.

"Those were my orders. You're my target," the Asset replied, his voice even less certain. Steve tried to figure out what Bucky was thinking, but his eyes were shadowed and empty.

"Those are old orders, Sergeant," he said firmly. "Hydra's been taken down. You don't have to listen to those orders anymore."

"Cut off one head, two more shall take its place." This was said with emotionless certainty. The Soldier knew Hydra. He was convinced that they weren't gone for good. Steve shook his head and walked towards his friend, taking a risk.

"Hydra's done, Bucky," he repeated. "You don't have to kill me. Pierce is dead."

The Soldier's expression was unreadable. He looked away, clearly thinking hard. Steve stood still, tense as a coiled spring, and waited.

"He was my handler." Bucky glanced at Steve. "Who is my handler now? I need to get new orders."

If Steve had actually stopped to think, he might not have said what he did next. But he’d always been impulsive. He crossed his arms and straightened. "I am. You'll take your orders from me." Almost immediately after that he grimaced, realizing that he actually had no idea what his supposed role as a handler entailed.

Bucky stared at him, not responding, eyes narrowed. Steve waited for him to do something, anything, but he didn’t, so the Captain finally sighed and backed away to retrieve his shield, not taking his eyes off of Bucky. “Well, I'm going to go get some breakfast. Wanna come?”

The Soldier got up from the floor, a picture of deadly grace, and followed Steve out of the room like a shadow. Steve took out his phone and texted Sam, realizing (again, belatedly) that if someone was going to wake up to the Winter Soldier eating breakfast in their kitchen, they might want to know about it.

He walked out the door, waiting for Bucky to follow. His mind was running a hundred miles an hour, trying to decide what to do next. Beyond offering his friend a decent meal (he was painfully thin and dirty looking) he hadn't planned his next steps very well. Or at all.

Sam didn't appear to be up yet, so Steve went to the fridge and pulled out some orange juice, milk, and a pitcher of water. He turned to Bucky, who was sitting at the table, and offered a half-hearted smile. "You want something to drink?"

The Soldier frowned quizzically, but didn’t answer.

"Um… Alright. I'll just get you some water and you can drink it if you want it." Steve sighed and poured two glasses of water, thinking. Asking Bucky whether he wanted things probably wasn’t how a handler operated; as much as he hated the idea, he’d probably have to start giving the Soldier orders. He was going to have to play the role he’d assigned himself whether he wanted to or not. He set a glass in front of Bucky and went back to the fridge to get eggs, taking a sip of his own water.

* * *

 

Sam was used to weird stuff by now. His roommate was a genetically-enhanced super soldier. He and his best friend had spent several years using man-made wings to fly missions for the U.S. military. Just a few years ago, the planet had been attacked by actual, real-life aliens.

But waking up to a text saying that a nationally-infamous assassin who’d tried to kill him was downstairs eating breakfast?

That was a whole new level of crazy.

He grabbed his handgun and tucked it into the waistband of his sweatpants, stretching and swearing softly. A part of him was thankful Steve had found Bucky (or vice versa, probably), but a part of him was concerned because super-powered terrorists were not the kind of people he usually invited to breakfast.

As he arrived downstairs, the only sounds in the kitchen were of eggs frying and Steve humming tunelessly under his breath. The Winter Soldier was sitting at the table, holding a glass of water in his metal hand, but it appeared that he hadn't actually drunk any of the liquid. Sam quietly walked into the kitchen, leaning nonchalantly against the counter.

“Morning, Steve,” he finally said, nodding. He noticed the Soldier staring at him warily, and gave him a forced smile.

“Hey.” Steve grinned sheepishly, carefully flipping over an egg. “Sorry about... this.”

“ _This_ saves us a lot of effort looking for him,” Sam said, shrugging. “I’m sure we can handle it.”

“I know. Another thing, Sam, I may have… I’m his handler.”

Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. We can work with that. It’s fine.” It was probably actually good that Steve had established himself as an authority figure. Otherwise there was no telling what the Soldier would do, left to his own devices.

He couldn’t help but snort, amused, at the look on Steve’s face. It was a _I-don't-know-what-to-do-I'm-scared-please-help_ look that reminded him of a puppy confronted with a larger, more aggressive dog. And it was even funnier because the Captain didn't realize he was doing it. “We’ll work it out, Cap. Whatcha making?”

"Just fried eggs, with salt and pepper," Steve answered, removing the finished eggs from the pan and breaking two more into it. "I'm gonna make some bacon too."

“I'll make some pancakes.” Sam straightened and strode over to the cabinets, rifling through them for the ingredients he needed. “He want any?”

Steve hesitated, looked over at the assassin, then sighed and nodded. “Make him some.”

“Okay.” Sam opened the fridge to grab some blueberries, milk, and syrup. “Hey, you want some?” he asked, proffering the carton of blueberries to Bucky. He wasn't sure what he expected. Maybe a harsh refusal and a scowl, maybe a quick grab at the carton and a mistrustful look. Definitely not the blank silence the Bucky was giving him. He glanced at Steve once, then looked back at Bucky. Then Sam sighed and offered the carton to Steve, who took some of the fruit. “So he doesn’t make his own decisions,” he said quietly.

"I don't think he was allowed to.” Steve shrugged. “So we have to phrase things like orders.”

“Makes a disturbing amount of sense.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Sam poured himself a glass of orange juice. He was good at helping people with trauma and recovery and PTSD, but frankly, looking at Bucky, he wasn’t sure this was going to be something he could manage. For now, though, he needed to focus on the positive. Which, in this case, included making pancakes.

He got out another frying pan and started heating the stove while mixing the batter. He’d just finished that when Steve offered him a plateful of eggs and bacon. “Here's your breakfast.” Sam accepted it gratefully, laughing at the huge helpings Steve heaped on his own and Bucky’s plates.

Damn, bacon was good.

The Winter Soldier stared dubiously at his plateful of food as if he thought it was going to jump up and bite him. If the situation hadn’t been so delicate, Sam might’ve laughed at his expression. “That's for you, Soldier,” Steve said firmly. Bucky started eating slowly, casting the occasional uncertain glance at Steve. The bacon, however, made his eyes widen slightly with enjoyment for a moment. Then his mask of indifference was back in place.

Sam put down his plate, shaking his head, to finish making the pancakes. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.


	2. Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could." - Louise Erdrich

Sam's pancakes were amazing, regardless of the fact that they were made with a boxed mix. Steve drowned his in syrup and extra blueberries, a choice that made Sam laugh and inform him that syrup was usually good with pancakes on the side. Bucky seemed confused by their banter and ended up foregoing the syrup, eating the pancakes plain. That was apparently good enough for him, however, because his lips tilted upward just barely before he kept eating.

Once all three of them had finished their breakfasts, Steve got up and helped Sam put the dishes in the sink. "Okay, Bucky..." he sighed, finally. Where to even start? Was there a specific way he was supposed to give orders? What about weapons, were there rules about weapons? He frowned, frustrated. To hell with it. "You need a shower," he decided. "Come with me, okay?"

Bucky didn't look very good as he stood and padded over to Steve, and it took the Captain a moment to realize that giving Bucky so much food so quickly had been ill-advised. He'd assumed that Bucky had been feeding himself, if poorly, but that didn't appear to be the case.

"Uh, Sam, I think he's gonna be sick."

"Oh, shit." Sam hurried to join them. The Soldier looked unsteady, one arm around his stomach, his eyes confused, miserable.

"Bathroom," Sam ordered. Steve nodded, already taking Bucky's arm and steering him towards the downstairs bathroom.

They'd only made it halfway when Bucky groaned, doubled over, and threw up all over the tiled floor.

Steve bit back a curse, relinquishing his hold on Bucky's arm. He rubbed his friend's back, trying to be soothing while simultaneously keeping his distance, and cast Sam an apologetic look. “Hey, you’re okay, Buck,” he said quietly, controlling a wave of nausea. “Take it easy. Breathe.”

The Soldier wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot Steve a look of suspicion and betrayal. Like he thought it was Steve’s fault that he’d gotten sick, which, in all honesty, it probably was.

“How about that shower now, huh? I’m so sorry.” Steve kept his hand on the small of Bucky’s back as the Soldier straightened, still holding his stomach. “I should’ve known better than to let you eat so much.”

Bucky didn’t react; his face just eased into a smooth mask again. No more emotion. No more misery. Just… blank. Steve sighed unhappily and nudged him into a walk, resuming the trip to the bathroom.

Once they got there, Steve asked Bucky if he knew how to shower, and at the assassin’s terse nod, he left the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I’m really sorry, Sam,” he groaned, running a hand over his face.

“Not your fault.” Sam shrugged. “I’d appreciate it if you’d help me clean up, though.”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, sure thing.”

After they cleaned up, Steve got a set of fresh clothes from his room for Bucky, stopping in his bathroom to wash his hands and face, as if his anger could be washed down the drain with the soapy water. He should’ve known better. How many times had he eaten too quickly after a hungry spell in Brooklyn and regretted it later?

He got downstairs just in time to see Sam ordering a very naked Bucky back into the bathroom. "Well, shit," he muttered, burying his face in his hands briefly, unable to stifle a laugh, before walking up to Sam. "I guess maybe I should apologize for that too."

"And I should probably tell you it's not your fault again." Sam’s expression was something between embarrassment and amusement, but in his typical good-natured fashion he shrugged the incident off.

Steve snorted, holding up the clothes he’d tucked under his arm. "I’ll go give him these.”

He ignored the part of his mind that told him that there could be several logical (and probably unpleasant) reasons why the Soldier thought it was perfectly acceptable to walk around naked. He needed to laugh about the situation or he'd get angry, and anger would not help him right now. So he cracked open the bathroom door and tossed the clothes through, telling Bucky to get dressed and then come out.

"Sorry," he told Sam again, walking over to lean against the dining room table.

"You should be," Sam retorted sarcastically. "Shame on you for helping your brainwashed best friend."

Steve laughed shortly. Laughed because he was angry. Laughed because if he didn't he might hit something. Bucky had apparently been so focused on his mission that he'd been letting himself starve. How long had it been since he'd eaten properly? Days? Weeks? Longer?

Sam excused himself to get ready for the day, and Steve started doing the dishes, movements monotonous and automatic. He heard Bucky coming back out of the bathroom and took a steadying breath before turning to face him.

His friend looked uncomfortable, like the clothes didn't fit him right, and his wet hair hung limply in his face. At least he was clean. Steve sighed and dried his hands on a dish towel. "Feeling better?"

Bucky tilted his head quizzically but, as usual, didn't answer.

Steve tried again. "The clothes okay?"

* * *

 

The Soldier looked down at himself. No, the clothes weren't ideal. He felt too exposed and vulnerable; the clothing was thin and flimsy. He hated feeling exposed like this, but it was probably necessary. His handlers sometimes did things like this, taking away his weapons or his uniform or deactivated his arm. He never asked why. It didn't really matter.

He nodded once. "They're fine." He glanced up, and was startled to see a frown on his handler's face. It wasn't an angry look, however. It was confused, or maybe even concerned.

"Are you sure? I can get you a jacket if you want."

Actually, a jacket sounded good. But the Asset knew better than to answer that question. Pierce had always liked doing this, too. Dangling a choice in front of him, as if it was really up to him, when he knew very well it wasn't. He just shrugged noncommittally and looked down.

His handler sighed, long and tired, and the Soldier wondered, momentarily panicked, if he'd misinterpreted the situation. If he wasn't even supposed to answer.

He looked up from the floor and watched the Captain turn away with a sigh and walk away to a closet, pulling open the door and getting out a worn leather jacket. Then he came back and held out the jacket to the Soldier. "Here."

The Asset accepted it submissively and put it on. It was warm and comfortable, and made him feel slightly less vulnerable. His handler rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, seemingly at a loss. Finally he let out another long sigh (the Soldier didn't like that, he decided; sighs could be disappointment or anger or irritation or half a dozen other emotions and he was never sure which was which) and gestured vaguely towards the stairs.

“I need to go shower and get dressed and stuff," he said hesitantly. "So I need you to stay either in the living room or the kitchen. You can do whatever you want, just don't, you know, break anything."

The Asset returned his gaze to the floor and nodded once. "I understand."

"Good," his handler said. "I'll, um... I'll be upstairs.

The Soldier watched the Captain go, brow furrowed. He wasn't sure what to make of his new handler. He was giving the Soldier more freedom than he'd ever had before, but he sensed that if he tried to disobey one of this handler's new rules, there would be a strict penalty. The Captain had a commanding presence and was obviously used to combat. It was strange, the way he talked (in hesitant phrases that often sounded like questions), but there was something more than that. The way he insisted on calling him "Bucky" or "James", as if the Soldier was someone… someone else. All the Asset's other handlers had called him Soldier, or anything that suited them. They hadn't given him a name. The Captain was always polite, too, offering him choices and asking him questions about things other than his mission, and when the Soldier had gotten sick (humiliating, stupid, malfunctioning), he'd actually been gentle. The Soldier couldn't remember anyone being gentle with him before.

All this made the Asset uncomfortable. People didn't ask him questions, and if they had he wasn't supposed to answer. And for getting sick and making a mess the way he had, he should have been punished. It was possible, still, that this was all a cruel joke. That the Captain was trying to gain his trust before shattering it into a million pieces. That this new leniency would only lead to humiliation and degradation and mocking laughter. But the Soldier wanted to believe that this man was different; after all, he knew him. That had to mean something. It had to.

He sat down on the couch and leaned back into the cushions, thinking. He never just "did whatever he wanted" (what did that even mean), and he was feeling overwhelmed. He didn't know what to think about, or where to go, or what he could do. The orders he'd been given were painfully vague.

He decided he would try to sleep. It'd been a few days since he'd last rested, and he knew that if he didn't get some sleep now, it might be a few more days before he had another chance. He wasn't allowed to sleep on missions, but he'd been told to do whatever he wanted, so he might as well take advantage of that. Besides, he'd been given permission to eat and wash himself today. That had to mean it was alright to sleep. He laid down on the living room couch, curled himself into a tight ball, and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter already! This one is a fair bit shorter than the first one. A lot of Tumblr posts, pieces of fanart, and fics have been helpful as I started writing this... so many, at this point, that I can't even keep track of the biggest inspirations.
> 
> Please review with criticism, compliments, suggestions, whatever. I'll shut up now and let you read the chapter, which is what you're actually here for.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or the setting or anything. Only the plot is mine.
> 
> For your information, this story has been around for about a year on FF.net and is pretty popular, and I'm finally putting it on here. :)


	3. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. ... Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. ... Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you." - Jim Morrison

Steve came downstairs about an hour later, after taking a shower and touching up his drawing from the night before. Normally he would have gone on a run before showering, but that obviously wasn't an option today. So instead he went into the kitchen and filled a kettle with water, setting it on the back burner of the stove on high heat. Then he spent a few minutes finishing the dishes.

After that, he went into the living room, sat down on Sam's favorite chair (a leather armchair with extra-soft cushions), and opened his sketchbook to draw. That was when he finally noticed Bucky.

The Soldier was curled up small on the couch, arms locked around his knees. His expression was anguished, and his breathing was fast and uneven, but other than that he seemed almost dead. He was totally silent and still, even asleep. Steve got up and went over, intending to wake Bucky up, then hesitated. His friend didn't look comfortable, but would waking him up be safe? And considering the fact that Bucky hadn't been eating, he probably hadn't been sleeping, either. Steve started turning away to go sit back down.

The water in the kettle on the stove chose that exact moment to boil, shrieking loudly, and Bucky jerked awake, springing up, his metal hand lashing out to grab Steve's neck. Steve choked, clutching desperately at the mechanical fingers. "Bucky!" If anything, the Soldier's inexorable grip tightened. "Damn it, Soldier! Put me down!" he coughed.

Bucky's eyes cleared, and, stunned, he quickly let go, stumbling backward and ducking his head. "I'm sorry," he stammered frantically. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It won't happen again."

Steve gulped in air gratefully, leaning against the arm of the couch. His neck was on fire, but he forced himself to straighten. He had to fix this. Bucky watched him stiffly, grey eyes drowning in fear.

"Bucky, hey, it's okay," Steve murmured, holding his hands up slowly. He hesitated, then walked around the couch into the kitchen and turned off the heat on the stove, since the kettle of water was still screaming bloody murder. He decided to give himself and his friend a moment to calm down, so he got out a plain green mug and started mixing up the cocoa. He didn't really want it anymore, but maybe Bucky would.

He walked back into the living room, and Bucky was still standing where he had left him, staring at the floor, motionless and silent. Steve looked at him, then carefully set the mug full of cocoa down on the nearest flat surface – the dining room table – and walked up to Bucky, who stiffened as he got closer. "Bucky," Steve said gently. "Bucky, look at me."

The Soldier obeyed immediately.

"I'm not mad, okay? You didn't know what that noise was and I was too close and I scared you. I'm sorry." He stepped closer. Bucky's muscles were so tense that his whole body looked frozen, carved out of ice. Steve considered hugging Bucky, but decided that would be counterproductive and instead closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh.

Bucky turned his head away, but otherwise didn't move. Steve sensed that he desperately wanted to run or fight or lash out, but he didn't do any of those things. There was a lump in the Captain's throat now that had nothing to do with his near death experience a few minutes earlier.

"Just get on with it." Bucky's voice was rough with sleep and fear. He didn't sound defiant, just confused and helpless. "Please, just... I'm sorry."

Steve held up his hands and took a step back. His friend wouldn't meet his eyes. "Buck, please look at me," he pleaded.

The grey eyes met his. He was startled to see something flashing in their depths like the dying embers of a fire. Something was going on in his friend's mind and memory that Steve didn't understand.

"I'm not going to do anything to you," Steve said firmly. "You didn't mean to hurt me and things aren't going to be like that anymore."

Bucky stared at him, clearly expecting something more, so Steve gave up on trying to convince him and turned away with a sigh to pick up the mug of hot chocolate. "This is for you. Just, you know, cocoa. I was going to have it but… um, yeah. I promise it isn't poison," he added, seeing Bucky's eyes narrow suspiciously. He took a quick sip. "See? Just chocolate. And hot water." The Soldier carefully took the mug from him, and Steve sighed again.

Then he retreated back to his armchair and sank into it, debating about whether or not to go see a doctor about his neck. It would be hard to explain why Captain America had bruises in the shape of someone's hand on his neck, but his throat really hurt. He picked up his sketchbook again, flipped it open, and started doodling, playing around with shading and the shapes and lines of things. He sighed, relaxing a bit, and decided to ignore his throbbing neck as best he could. Yeah, sure it hurt, but that was partially because the super soldier serum was already working to fix the damage, and it wouldn't be at all easy to explain this injury to a doctor. And he didn't even want to imagine the chaos that would ensue if anyone else noticed and it ended up on someone's Twitter.

Steve glanced up and noticed Bucky staring at him. The Soldier was sitting on the couch, his back ramrod straight, and holding the cocoa in his hands. When Steve's eyes met his, he looked down and took a brief sip of his drink. Almost involuntarily, Steve's hand started tracing out Bucky's features on paper, processing his feelings through the sketching as he so often did.

When he finished, he looked back over the drawing. It was good, by his standards anyway. He set the notebook down on the floor next to the chair, picture facing the floor.

He had to stop feeling sorry for himself. Bucky was alive, and sometimes Peggy had a few moments of clarity. He had Sam, he was a part of the Avengers, he'd taken Hydra down again (hopefully for good this time), and Tasha was no longer bothering him about his love life. He chuckled hoarsely at that last thought, then winced.

Sam came down the stairs a little while later, pausing in the kitchen to get some coffee. "You guys mind if I turn on the TV?" he asked.

"Go ahead." Steve's voice was rough, thanks to Bucky.

"Steve, what's up with your voice?"

Steve smiled tentatively as Sam finally noticed his injuries.

"You have red and purple bruises on your neck." Sam's tone was flat and a little too calm. "Care to explain why you didn't come get me or something when you were almost strangled to death?"

Steve bridled at his friend's tone. "I'm fine," he grumbled. "It's not that bad." He hesitated, than added more quietly, "And I didn't want him thinking I was going to punish him."

Sam's expression was half exasperated, half understanding. He shook his head, turning to give Bucky a half-hearted glare. "I swear, Rogers, you can be so… man, I don't even know why I put up with you. I was worried about something like this happening."

Steve glanced at Bucky, who was watching them both with a clenched jaw. "Yeah, I know, Sam. But I'm fine, I promise."

"I'm not so sure about that. And even if you are, what about next time?"

"There won't be a next time."

Bucky blinked, frowning.

"How do you know that?" Sam protested. "You have no way of knowing that!"

Steve stood, gritting his teeth, and turned slightly away from Bucky, voice low. "He was asleep and got startled awake. It wasn't intentional. And anyway, as much as I hate to say it..." He glanced back at Bucky regretfully. "He's too scared of punishment to do it again."

"Okay, fine. Are you feeling okay now?"

"Yeah.” Steve didn't want to admit how bad his neck hurt. That didn't matter, however, because Sam had worked it out on his own.

"We're going to go get that checked out. We really don't need any more problems right now."

"Gosh, Sam-"

"We're going. Put on a hoodie or something so those bruises aren't obvious."

Steve sighed and gave up, turning to go get his sweatshirt out of the entryway closet.

"Bucky," he said. The Soldier straightened on the couch, his wary eyes darting up to meet Steve's as he stood by the closet. "Same rules apply as earlier. You stay down here, don't break anything. Otherwise you can do whatever you want. Got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Thanks." Steve cracked a small smile for Bucky's benefit before nodding to Sam with a sigh. "Let's just go now."

Sam snorted, and they headed out the front door, locking it behind them.

* * *

 

Bucky sank down on the couch again, head spinning. No pain. There had been no pain. He hadn't been punished. He'd foolishly allowed himself to panic and he'd nearly killed his handler and yet nothing had happened. It scared him, how close he'd come to snapping the Captain's neck.

He ran his hands through his long hair, tugging at it, shaking his head. He hadn't been punished. If he had done something like that to Pierce, he would have been beaten within an inch of his life, and he would have deserved it. Hurting a handler was inexcusable. So why had the Captain done nothing?

He got up and started pacing, from the kitchen to the living room and back again. He paused, catching sight of his handler's notebook. He hesitated. The Captain hadn't said he couldn't look at the notebook, and "whatever he wanted" was an ambiguous phrase. Hesitantly, glancing around, he padded over and picked up the notebook, turning it over to see what was written in it.

It wasn't writing at all, but a drawing of him. Other doodles surrounded the picture, of various shapes shaded using different techniques, hands and arms drawn in different positions. But there he was, drawn in pencil and standing out from the rest of the artwork. He looked… broken. Bucky scowled and tossed the notebook back down the on the floor. He didn't understand why his handler would draw him.

There had often been Hydra agents who stared at him like they were going to eat him alive, agents who seemed fascinated by his appearance. This was… different. He didn't understand any of this. His handler wasn't cruel like the rest of Hydra, but it didn't seem like he was one of those leering agents either. Was it possible that the Captain was telling the truth when he said that the Soldier was no longer with Hydra? That Hydra was gone? But then… Bucky growled and clenched his fist so tightly that his untrimmed fingernails dug into his skin. He didn't understand.

He paced for a few more minutes, then forced himself to stop walking and sit down on the couch, burying his face in his hands. Maybe he should go back to sleep. He was still exhausted. Besides that, he simply couldn't believe that there would be no punishment for his mistake. Better to be well-rested before the Captain returned. He curled up on the couch again and immediately fell into a restless sleep.

…

_The knife sliced into his chest, and Bucky screamed, trying to pull away but unable to._

_"You were supposed to kill him." Another cut. "Why didn't you?"_

_"I knew him."_

_"Pathetic. You're going soft, Soldier."_

_An especially deep cut. Bucky whimpered. "Stop it."_

_"You're nothing." The words hurt more than the knife. Bucky tried to ignore them, tried to stop listening._

_"I-"_

_"I didn't give you permission to speak." The knife stabbed into his stomach and twisted. Bucky screamed, broken and breathless._

_The Red Skull, because he was the one torturing Bucky, undid his restraints and flung the man to the floor. "Kill him. He's in the way. For the good of Hydra."_

_"No." Bucky tried to move away, scrambling with his metal arm. "I won't kill him. Not for Hydra. Not for anyone."_

_Pain. Handlers and agents and targets. Sometimes he held the knife, sometimes someone else did. Hail Hydra. Hail Hydra. Hail Hydra. No. Hail Hydra._

…

Bucky jolted awake, gasping, tears pouring down his face. He'd fallen off the couch sometime in the middle of his hellish nightmare. He clenched his hands into fists and slammed his head into the floor repeatedly. He wasn't supposed to cry. He wasn't supposed to wake up like this. He was falling apart. This wasn't supposed to happen. His handler was supposed to keep this from happening to him. He could almost feel the knife again. When had that happened? Had it ever? Maybe. He couldn't remember. He tangled his fingers into his hair and curled himself into a small ball on the floor, trying not to lash out and break something. Although maybe if he did, if he disobeyed his handler on purpose, he would be punished. Maybe they would even wipe him. That would stop all this mental agony. He groaned and shuddered, holding himself in place by shear willpower. Every fiber of his being wanted to leave, to run, to get out, but his programming wouldn't allow that.

He hurt so badly. He wanted it to stop. He got to his feet and started pacing again, his bare feet making barely a sound on the floor. Suddenly he spun around and slammed his left fist into the dining room table. Splinters of wood flew like frightened birds. Teeth bared in a furious snarl, he started destroying the table. He was out of control. Dimly his mind warned him that this would cause him more pain later, but he didn't care. Physical pain was alright. Physical pain could be fixed. Physical pain healed over time. Physical pain was something he was used to. He understood destruction, manipulation, violence, torture, and anger, but not this mental chaos he was undergoing. He yelled and turned away from the table, crumpling into a heap on the floor.

* * *

 

Steve and Sam stood and surveyed the wreckage of Sam's nice wood table, then glanced at each other. Sam just looked weary, and Steve felt awful. It might as well have been his fault. If he'd been more specific with his instructions, or if he hadn't scared Bucky, or if he'd insisted on ignoring his injuries… he groaned and wiped a hand across his face.

Bucky was nowhere in sight. If he'd left the house… Damn it all, this was not going well. Steve gave Sam an apologetic glance.

"I'll pay for that to be replaced. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay. For now we need to find him. You look upstairs, I'll look down here. We better pray he hasn't left the house."

Steve took the stairs two at a time, doing as Sam had suggested and praying that Bucky was still somewhere inside. He checked his room first, giving a little sigh of relief as he pushed the door open.

Bucky was crouched in the corner of the room by the closet, watching Steve warily. Were those tear stains on his cheeks? Steve swallowed and closed the bedroom door behind him, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hand in his hands. What now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 USERS: PLEASE REREAD CHAPTERS ONE AND TWO. I have updated them since posting on here because the original quality did not fit the quality of the rest of the story.
> 
> I can't believe how fast I'm writing this! Be forewarned, I won't keep posting at this rate in future, my muses are just particularly busy right now.
> 
> Please review!


	4. Avengers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal... Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable." - C.S. Lewis

Steve drew a long breath, looking up at Bucky, lacing his fingers together nervously. "What happened?"

Bucky glanced down at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Why don't you just explain what happened?" Steve said, gently but firmly.

Bucky bent his head and drew his legs up closer to himself, dropping his forehead onto his knees with a shaky breath. He looked small and vulnerable and frightened. "I'm malfunctioning, sir." he mumbled. "Something's wrong with me. I panicked. I'm sorry. I understand you have to punish me."

Steve swallowed, pressing his hands more tightly together. "Don't you get it yet, Buck?" he pleaded. "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want to. That's not how things work anymore, okay? Hydra is gone. That means you're free. That means that no one's going to beat you or torture you just because you make a mistake."

"I don't understand."

"I know."

They both just sat in silence then, not looking at each other, not saying anything. What was there to say? Steve found himself remembering a completely different time and place, when Bucky had still loved talking just to hear the sound of his own voice, and when Steve had been a scrawny, sickly kid who was willing to listen to nearly anything his best friend had to say.

...

_"Steve, are you even paying attention?"_

_"Um, kind of," Steve mumbled. He was seated on Bucky's couch, focusing on a sketch of their scrawny cat._

_Bucky groaned. "Awww, Stevie," he complained. "Don't be like that."_

_"Be like what?" Steve asked, glancing at his friend with a raised eyebrow. "Don't tell me you expect me to feel bad for you. I told you it was a dumb idea."_

_"It was not! It just… didn't work."_

_"Yeah, and you ended up looking like an idiot in front of everyone. Like I knew you would."_

_Bucky glared at him from his spot on the floor and halfheartedly threw a discarded pencil at him. Steve looked up and gave Bucky an unimpressed eye roll. "Stop being a big baby, Barnes."_

_"You weren't the one spouting off romantic shit in front of a whole roomful of people, punk!"_

_"Yeah? Well, you've never have asthma attacks in public where you wheeze and gasp like a dying fish, either," Steve countered._

_"Yeah, guess not."_

_Steve started drawing the cat's whiskers. "It coulda worked if you hadn't gone up there like it was all a big joke. I bet you had that crazy grin on your face, too, didn't you? She probably thought you were just making fun."_

_"So you were listening!" Bucky crowed._

_"Of course I was, jerk. I told you she was too shy to appreciate that even if you weren't acting stupid. You should've just asked her go eat at Lisa's Diner or something. In private."_

_Bucky flopped onto his back on the floor, scowling. "Sure, yeah, yeah. I bow to your superior wisdom, Stevie-boy."_

_Steve looked up from his work with an indignant frown. "Don't call me that, Buck!" he complained. "I'm not some little kid!"_

_"Oh yeah? Tiny little shrimp like you? Bet you won't ever get taller than four foot or so."_

_"I'm already over five foot, stupid," groaned Steve, burying his face in his hands._

_Bucky smirked and flung another pencil at him._

...

The Soldier's rough voice broke into Steve's memory. "Will you wipe my memories?"

"Never."

"Why not?"

Steve was startled. Looking more closely at Bucky, he saw evidence of a terrible internal struggle in his friend's eyes. "Because you deserve better. You deserve to remember, to have your life back."

Bucky scowled and glanced away briefly, fists clenched.

"Bucky-"

"My name isn't Bucky," the Soldier snarled.

Steve winced and nodded, looking down, "Alright, but what else am I supposed to call you?"

There was no answer from the Soldier. Either he couldn't think of an answer or, more likely, he regretted his outburst.

"Why don't you come downstairs? It's about lunch time, and I'm gonna make some mac'n'cheese."

Steve headed out of his room. Bucky's quiet footsteps followed a few seconds later, much to Steve's relief.

Halfway down the stairs, his phone started ringing. It was Nat.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Steve." Natasha sounded bored. "What's up?"

"Oh, you know, not much," Steve lied. "Just about to make lunch."

"Cool. You mind if I pay you guys a visit? I made a special trip from New York to see you. Tony and Bruce's science has gotten out of hand and I wanted to get away."

"You're staying at the Tower?" Steve asked, controlling a surge of panic.

"Yeah. Bruce and I have been staying there because Tony asked us to. Clint would be too, but he's in therapy at SHIELD still."

"Oh."

"So you mind if I visit?"

"Maybe now wouldn't be the best time, Nat. We're-"

"Sorry, Steve, it's a little late for that. I'm already pulling onto your street." She only sounded a little sorry.

Oh shit. They hadn't prepared for this yet. "Okay, Nat, just... We kind of... Things happened and, long story short... Bucky's here."

A long pause on the other end of the line. "I see. You want me to get a hotel? I can."

"No, no." Steve sighed. "It's fine. Might as well come in."

"Alright. Talk to you in a minute." Natasha hung up.

Steve immediately pocketed his phone and turned to Bucky. "Listen, my friend Natasha Romanoff is coming in here in a few minutes. She's not a threat, so take it easy, alright?""

"I understand."

"Okay, good."

Steve hurried the rest of the way down the stairs just as the doorbell rang. He unlocked and pulled open the front door, smiling wryly.

Natasha's hair was curly again, which surprised him a little. She was wearing a Captain America t-shirt that Tony had probably given her as a joke, and she gave Steve a quick grin. "Hey, Rogers," she said, slipping off her shoes and brushing past him into the house.

Bucky was leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the wood splinters on the floor, for the moment distracted.

"Wow." Tasha walked over, stepping lightly with her ballerina feet, raising an eyebrow at the carnage.

"Bucky, this is-"

"I know you," Bucky interjected, looking hard at Natasha, frowning.

"No surprise there," Nat said with a tight-lipped smile.

The two of them stared at each other. Steve sensed that this was something he just had to allow to play out. Their muscles were taut, eyes narrowed. It was like introducing two nuclear bombs to each other and hoping they didn't explode.

* * *

Natasha wasn't sure what Bucky was going to say next, and that worried her. How did he think he knew her? From Russia? From Odessa? From a few months ago? She didn't want to have to explain everything to Steve, and she didn't want to think about Russia now either.

Bucky watched her distrustfully through his long hair. She gave him a charming smile and turned back to Steve. "Well, where's the food?"

"I was just about to start making macaroni. You wanna put together a salad?"

"Sure." Nat opened the fridge and started pulling out whatever she thought would be good in a salad. Spinach, romaine, raspberries, mozzarella, chicken, and vinaigrette all ended up piled haphazardly on the counter. Then she organized her supplies and got out a large bowl to make the salad in. "So what's the situation?" she asked quietly. "And what happened to your neck?"

Steve lifted a hand to his neck self-consciously. The bruises looked pretty bad. "He showed up this morning and I told him I was his handler. But we've had a few mishaps… This was an accident, though. The doctor said I'd be fine if I got some rest and didn't unduly strain my neck. He said sometimes icing it might help, and ibuprofen, but pain meds never help me, so…"

"Okay." She sighed. Steve was probably minimizing the injury, as he always did, but this time she didn't press him about it. "You're going to have to find a more secure place than this to stay," she said instead. "There're too many things that could go wrong here. Too many people who could see him."

"Yeah, I worked that out," Steve sighed. "But he just got here this morning. I haven't exactly had time to figure anything out."

They continued making food, not speaking, just thinking their own thoughts. Natasha tried to ignore the Soldier, but she could feel him staring at her and knew that if he decided to ask her about Russia… if he started talking… she just hoped he didn't remember any of that. She dumped her ingredients in a bowl, tossed the salad for a bit, then put more of the cheese and berries and chicken on the top of the salad and drizzled vinaigrette over all of it.

Sam came out of the bathroom. He blinked, rather surprised to see the Black Widow in his kitchen, but got over it quickly. "Hey, Romanoff."

"Wilson."

"What're you doing here?"

"I missed Steve and figured I had to check on him to make sure he wasn't going crazy. Plus Tony has been unbearable over the past few days."

Sam snorted, amused, and pulled out the ingredients to make biscuits. Natasha smiled slightly and got plates out of Sam's cabinets. "So is he going crazy?"

"Definitely. Now where should we eat?" The dining room table definitely wasn't an option.

"Coffee table would work."

"Alright." Natasha got out napkins and forks, then set four places at the coffee table and sat down on the floor, leaning against the couch. Sam could be heard clattering around in the kitchen, and the sun streamed in through the windows in the front of the house. Natasha held up her hand into one of the sunbeams and turned it this way and that, watching the way the shadows changed. She was remembering a different time, when the sun had been covered with gray clouds and the ground had been cold and a bullet had ripped through her and despite her best efforts she wasn't able to save her partner. She remembered the way the Soldier's cold gray eyes had been hard as flint, the way she recognized him and knew how deadly he was, because he'd been the one who taught her some of her best fighting techniques.

She sighed and closed her eyes, breathing in and out steadily, concentrating on the timing of each breath.

* * *

Bruce told Tony he should leave them alone; after all, they'd been part of the reason Natasha took a vacation. But Tony wanted to see Steve too, and he liked annoying Natasha, so he took his newest suit and flew straight to Washington, D.C. It took him a little while to find Sam Wilson's house (because he wasn't Natasha Romanoff and JARVIS kept telling him he should leave them alone).

Once he did, he landed on the front porch as quietly as he could with his suit. How best to announce his presence? It would be really funny if he shot down the front door, but that wouldn't exactly make a good first impression with Wilson, so he did the next best thing. He slammed his metal fist into the wood several times, yelling, "Steve Rogers, you're under arrest for being too patriotic! Open up or I'll blow this door down!"

The door was yanked open, and Steve's expression would have been enough to put the fear of God in anyone other than Tony. "What the hell, Stark?" he snapped, stepping aside so Tony could come in.

At first he didn't get why Steve (and apparently everyone else) was so mad. Sure, that had probably been a really startling and annoying greeting, but they had to give him some credit. It was hilarious. That was before he saw the Winter Soldier, however. The assassin was crouched in a combat stance, eyes fearful but determined. Well, shit.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Tony asked indignantly, flipping up the visor of his suit as Steve closed the door behind him.

"No, what the hell are _you_ doing here?" Natasha hissed. "You couldn't give me one day, Stark? One day without you shoving your nose in my business?"

"Apparently I haven't been being nosy enough," the genius replied, stepping completely out of his suit and straightening his t-shirt. "How long has he been here?"

"Just since this morning," Steve said belligerently, crossing his arms and walking over to the Soldier, holding out a hand as if to calm him. "Natasha didn't know till he got here." He turned away then, crouching in front of the Soldier. "Bucky, listen to me, okay? You're fine. We're all fine. He's not a threat. Relax, alright?"

Tony didn't like the look Barnes was giving him.

"This is Tony Stark. He's another of my partners. He won't hurt you."

The Soldier nodded once, straightening, expression going blank. That was actually scarier than the aggression, and Tony swallowed.

Steve sighed and turned to him, shaking his head. "Tony, this is Bucky Barnes."

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," Tony said with a grin, still nervous but not willing to show it. "Nice arm. The engineering is incredible!"

Barnes frowned.

"Of course, I could make a better one for you, but-"

"Tony, shut up," Natasha said, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah. Okay. Um, still wondering though: what is he doing here?"

Steve lightly ran a hand along his neck and Tony noticed the bruises. "Well, Stark… It's complicated."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Heh. I don't like this chapter too much. It's kind of sort of a filler chapter. I was glad to bring in Tasha and Tony, but I just don't like how it turned out Anyways, I hope you guys like it more than I do.
> 
> Selective scifi junkie, thanks a ton for beta-ing this. I'd like this chapter even less without your help :P
> 
> Constructive criticism, compliments, suggestions, whatever, are also welcome in the reviews and stuff...


	5. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen." - Elizabeth Kubler Ros

After the situation had been explained in its entirety (they had Bucky go up and wait in Steve's room), it was decided that SHIELD would not be informed until the Avengers had figured out what they were going to do. Tony invited Steve and Sam to move into the Tower with the Soldier until further notice, since its security system was the best in the world and it would be easier to keep track of Bucky there.

"Sounds like a good idea," Sam said, glancing ruefully at the wreckage of his table.

"I better check with Bruce, since he's living with me right now too, but I think that'll work." Tony rubbed his hands together like a little boy presented with a new toy.

Steve sighed and nodded, sinking down on the couch and closing his eyes. Sam exchanged glances with Natasha, then walked over and lightly kicked the Captain's shin.

"Hey, bro, did you have another nightmare last night?"

Steve shrugged sheepishly. "A couple, yeah."

"Why don't you go take a nap then? I'm sure Romanoff can handle Bucky for an hour or so."

"I don't think-"

"Cap, get your butt up off the couch and rest," Nat ordered, narrowing her eyes. "Your old man body can't handle all this stress."

Steve rolled his eyes at her dramatically, but pushed himself to his feet and made his way upstairs. In all honesty, getting a rest sounded pretty good. His neck hurt, he'd barely gotten any sleep the night before, and he genuinely was stressed from everything crazy that had happened this morning. Walking into his room, he saw Bucky sitting on the floor again, his back against the wall, staring blankly at the floor.

"Bucky, I'm going to take a nap, so would you mind going out?"

The Soldier glanced up at him with a slight frown on his face, and started to get up. "Do you want me to guard you?" he asked briefly. Steve hesitated. He didn't need guarding, but did Bucky expect that of him? Was he supposed to guard his handlers?

"Okay," Steve said finally, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "I guess you can guard me. Oh, and while I'm not here or asleep or if anything happens to me, Natasha Romanoff and Sam Wilson are in charge, okay?"

Bucky nodded, then sat back down on the floor. Steve got into bed and turned his back on the Soldier, feeling somewhat disconcerted. Being a handler was not easy and he didn't like giving orders to Bucky. He sighed, closed his eyes, and tried his best to stop thinking.

...

_"They're everywhere!" Dum Dum came charging into their makeshift camp, eyes wide. "All around us!"_

_Steve swore and jumped up from where he'd been sketching an interesting plant, running to his tent for his shield. He could hear the Commandos gathering in the middle of the camp, talking loud and fast. Frightened. He was frightened. But he pushed that away and strode back out, shield on his arm._

_Bucky looked tired, as he did so often lately. Steve thought he was more shaken after his time as POW than he was admitting. "What're we gonna do, Stevie?" he said, slinging his sniper rifle over one shoulder._

_"I'd like to propose that we give 'em hell," Dum Dum said, grinning._

_"Any other, more specific, ideas?" Steve said, smiling slightly._

_"I really think 'give 'em hell' is the best you're going to get," Falsworth said. "They've got us properly boxed in."_

_"Well then..." Steve drew his pistol and made sure it was loaded. "I guess that's the plan."_

_That's when everything started to go wrong. Bolts of blue energy exploded into the camp - snipers. Steve jolted to a stop, staring around. This wasn't supposed to happen, this wasn't how it happened - "Steve!" Bucky yelled. They were dying. Oh God. Dum Dum, Falsworth, Dernier..._

_A scream. Bucky. He was dead. This hadn't happened, this wasn't supposed to happen! Steve howled and charged towards where he thought a sniper was hiding, feeling pitifully useless. His shield, where had his shield gone? Suddenly he didn't have it anymore, it was just his gun, and he wasn't even Captain America. He was a helpless, asthmatic kid again and where was his shield? Jones collapsed. Morita. "No!" Steve couldn't do anything. He couldn't save them._

* * *

The Soldier clenched his hand around one of his knives, watching the door and the window narrowly. He'd been ordered to protect his handler, and he would. It was one of the easier missions he'd ever had, but one he'd done before. Pierce constantly seemed afraid of assassination, and had therefore ordered the Asset to follow him everywhere undercover to make sure that any threats were dealt with before they could even take aim.

He'd hated Pierce, he thought. Was there a reason? Maybe. It didn't matter; he felt things sometimes that didn't make sense and he just had to ignore it and push forward.

He didn't hate the Captain. He didn't exactly trust him, either, but he wasn't as afraid of him as he probably should have been. He was a huge man, and sometimes the Soldier saw anger or hatred or frustration in his eyes and his taut muscles, but he had impressive control over himself. The Soldier wished he could figure this handler out, but he couldn't.

Defending him felt right, somehow. More than just a mission, maybe? He didn't know. He adjusted his grip on the knife and clutched his legs tight against his chest.

His handler's breathing was escalating. Bucky narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, watching. The Captain suddenly rolled over and curled into the fetal position, whimpering quietly. For some reason that bothered Bucky, and he straightened uncomfortably, tapping the point of the knife against his kneecap.

Rogers continued to make small, anguished sounds in his sleep, clutching at his blankets. His expression was strained and frightened, and he seemed unable to wake up. Bucky stood and started pacing. He didn't know what to do. This was outside of his experience (why was everything to do with this handler outside of his experience?) and he didn't dare wake the Captain up, but he wasn't sure if he should just let him sleep, either.

He paused next to the bed and looked down, trying to decide. It seemed like the Captain was in pain. If he _didn't_ wake the man up, he might get in trouble. Maybe he was dying. Or getting sick. Or maybe dreaming? Whatever it was, letting it continue was probably failing his mission to guard. So he leaned forward and tentatively touched the Captain's shoulder with his right hand.

His handler jolted awake, eyes flying open, and he grabbed the Soldier's arm tightly. The Asset wanted to pull away, but he didn't, because he wasn't supposed to. Damn it, he'd made a mistake. He was going to be punished, he didn't mean to, he'd just been trying to-

His handler suddenly let go, his eyes widening, his expression stunned and remorseful. "Damn, I'm sorry, Bucky!" he said, sitting up and moving away, giving the Soldier his space. "I didn't mean to do that. I'm sorry."

The Asset walked away, carefully, to sit down on the floor where he'd been a moment before, not picking up his knife. Was he really going to escape punishment _again_? He heard blankets rustling, and then clumsy, shuffling footsteps. Glancing up, he saw his handler standing in front of him, frowning tiredly and crossing his arms protectively over his muscular chest.

"I really am sorry, Bucky. I promise I'm not angry. I just got startled."

The Soldier frowned. Again with the apologizing. He didn't understand this handler. He didn't understand anything, but he felt like he should understand… Pierce was supposed to transfer him and explain things but he was dead. Why was the Captain so different? Why couldn't things just be easy? He just wanted orders and a mission, maybe a wipe or cryofreeze. This wasn't fair, this hurt. They were supposed to do things a certain way, that was the only thing he could depend on. The consistency of Hydra. And he didn't even have that anymore. Glancing up, he realized that his handler was probably waiting for an answer. He shifted in place. "Yes sir?" he tried.

The Captain sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry." Then he turned and climbed back into bed almost reluctantly, laying down on his side with his back to the Soldier and letting out a long breath. His breathing gradually slowed until the Asset couldn't hear it anymore, and only then did he relax fully.

That had been… strange. Different. It didn't fit with his programming in any way, and that was why it bothered him so much.

His handler had had a nightmare, he realized. That, too, was strange. What would the Captain have nightmares about? He knew that he himself sometimes had dark dreams, dreams that hurt, but that was only what he deserved. His handler was kind, and his handler was patient, and his handler was strong, so why was he having nightmares? Why was anything the way it was? He wanted to go back. He wanted to be frozen, he wanted to forget. This was too frightening, the feeling of freedom (was this freedom? It felt like it) was too intoxicating and powerful. He dropped his chin onto his knees again and picked up the knife, staring at the cold blade like it might help him understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and let me know what you think!


	6. Transfer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature." - Jane Austen

"I guess this is Avengers Tower," Steve said. He was slightly in awe, but didn't want to let it show. Sam, on the other hand, was openly gaping at the building. The outside had been impressive enough (floor after floor of glittering windows, a landing pad labelled "Avengers" in stylized lettering), but the inside looked like a building form the future. Glass stairs and an elevator stretched straight up for dozens of floors, Ironman and Avengers memorabilia (including, to Steve's embarrassment, his SHIELD-issue Avengers uniform) hung tastefully along the walls.

"Welcome to the Tower, Captain Rogers, Mr. Wilson."

Bucky froze when the cool British voice came from somewhere above them, but when he saw how unconcerned Steve was, he relaxed slightly. Steve elbowed Sam, who was still gaping.

"Hey, JARVIS. Sam, Bucky, this is JARVIS. He's an AI that Tony invented."

"Pleased to meet you, JARVIS," said Sam with a grin.

"Mr. Stark would like you to go to the fifty-first floor; he's waiting for you there. Your suites are on the fiftieth floor.

"Is everything secure?"

"Of course."

They walked over to the elevator, but Bucky stopped just short of getting in, eyes darting from side to side.

"Are you okay, Buck?" Steve asked gently.

The Soldier nodded, hesitating only a moment more before stepping into the elevator; Steve and Sam exchanged concerned glances and followed.

The elevator started moving up, and to Steve's surprise it had music playing, rock music at low volume. Tony's selection, of course. Steve shifted his weight from foot to foot, arms crossed over his chest. He had to admit that he felt uncomfortable in the Tower; seeing that it was now "Avengers" Tower made everything feel… strange. Different. Public.

Bucky was standing still and straight, staring expressionlessly at the floor by his feet. There was ridged tension in the lines of his shoulders and jaw, and his left fist kept clenching and unclenching slowly.

"Hey, are you alright, Bucky?" Steve asked gently.

The Soldier glanced at him briefly and nodded.

Steve sighed and leaned against the wall of the elevator, arms crossed. Sam was staring at the floor and chewing his lip, clearly lost in thought. Just then, there was a familiar bell-like 'ding' as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open.

They walked out of the elevator, and JARVIS quietly instructed them to go to their right. They walked out into a large, impressive living area with a kitchen, bar, couches, and pool table. Tony was waiting for them by the bar, sipping a glass of scotch. "Hey guys!" he called, walking over with a huge shit-eating grin on his face. "Did you miss me? I mean, you must have or you wouldn't be here." He gestured back over his shoulder vaguely. "Bruce and Tasha will be up here soon. Might wanna warn your pal there about the Jolly Green Giant."

"Hey guys." Nat joined them, smiling and adjusting a ponytail. Steve wasn't sure he'd ever seen her with her hair up before. "Hey Bucky."

The Soldier blinked, his eyes darting quickly from side to side, before muttering, "Hey."

"How's it going, Steve?" she asked, casually stealing Tony's drink and taking a sip.

"Hey!" the genius yelped, trying to grab it back. Natasha just casually moved a step away and took another sip.

"Not great. Not bad," Steve answered, grinning.

She laughed. "Bruce will be up here in a bit. He's making himself presentable; maybe doing some deep breathing exercises."

"I was actually just putting away some chemicals," Bruce interrupted, walking up behind Steve. They turned to look at him, and he offered a half-hearted smile. "Hi. I guess you're Bucky Barnes?" he asked.

Steve answered for his friend. "Yep. Bucky, this is Dr. Bruce Banner. Brilliant nuclear physicist and biochemist."

Bruce chuckled wryly. "Let's not forget that I also turn into a giant green monster when I'm angry," he said. "He should probably know about that."

Bucky looked bewildered, so Steve was quick to explain. "When he gets angry or stressed, he kind of… transforms. Turns into a muscular green giant who tends to smash things."

"That's certainly one way to put it," Bruce muttered. "For once though, I'm not the most volatile person in the room." He gave Bucky a small grin.

Bucky just looked nervous and confused.

"You should probably all go unpack and stuff," Tony said. "Does the Tin Man even have anything to unpack?"

"No," Steve admitted. "I've got to go buy him some things."

"If you guys give me his clothing sizes and preferences, I can put in an order and have some stuff here in a few hours." Tony grabbed his scotch, or what was left of it, back from Natasha and took a long swallow.

Steve frowned, crossing his arms. "That's not necessary, Tony. I can afford-"

"Capsicle my boy, perks of being a billionaire: I can afford to buy you an entire department store if I want to. Or three of them. You guys' rooms are on the floor just below this one. If you get lost, JARVIS will help you get where you need to be. Dinner is at 5:30 PM. Oh, and if you don't mind, Bucky Bear, I'll look at that arm of yours right after we eat."

Bucky's face smoothed into something almost like relief, and he dipped his head submissively. Tony clapped his hands once, still smiling, and said, "Alright, you guys, go make yourselves at home. Behave, don't break anything, and tell JARVIS what kind of clothes you want." He spun around and strode off in the direction of the elevator, whistling.

…

Bucky's room was bare of anything that could possibly be used as a weapon (they hoped), although relatively homey despite the simplicity. The colors were soft greys and spring greens, although there wasn't much opportunity to develop that color scheme in such a minimalistic room. There was a bed, bolted securely to the floor and made all in one piece, so that it would be harder to take apart (the mattress was of the best quality with no springs inside). The door into the room didn't have a doorknob and was controlled by JARVIS; the closet for his clothes had a curtain instead of a door. The bathroom was equally secure, everything in it having been tested multiple times to make sure it was sturdy and wouldn't break. The armchair in the room was very cushioned and soft and was the only thing in the room that wasn't Hulk-proofed and bolted to the floor.

Steve had to admit that Tony had one a good job on the room; he had no complaints about it. He helped Bucky get situated, and was somewhat concerned by how compliant the Soldier was, doing everything Steve told him to without a sound, his eyes completely blank.

Steve also finally did what he should have done at the start: he confiscated all Bucky's weapons. There were even more of them than Steve had expected. Four throwing knives, three combat knives, four handguns, two of those small electric darts that could probably knock Steve out cold, and several small, powerful explosives.

"Wow, Buck," he said, his lips curving up slightly in a wry smile. "You've got enough weapons here to outfit a small army. Is this everything?"

"Yes sir."

Steve and Sam gathered everything up very carefully, tucking guns and knives into their jeans. "Bucky, you stay in here until someone comes to get you, okay? Sleep or shower or whatever. Tony's probably gonna do maintenance on that arm of yours later, so if you could get some sleep that'd be good."

Once Steve and Sam were out in the hallway, they asked JARVIS to monitor Bucky at all times and tell them if something seemed wrong. JARVIS, or course, promised to do so, and they went upstairs to talk to Natasha, Tony, and Bruce about rules and how to deal with certain situations, should they arise.

* * *

Bucky was only too happy to sleep. His confusion had begun to slip away in the tower's familiar professional, secure atmosphere. It was comforting to know that he'd have his metal arm back in full working order soon, too. There was always a possibility that they'd wipe him once they fixed him, although he wasn't quite sure whether he wanted that or not. Of course, that thought in and of itself proved that he needed to be wiped. The mission was supposed to come first (although he didn't have one at the moment; maybe that explained his erratic behavior?) and here he was wondering if he wanted to be wiped. He was a weapon, not a person. People got to think. He didn't. That was how it worked.

Well, either way, the technicians would fix his arm soon and his handler would give him a mission, and that would be alright. He'd be in proper working order again, but things might be better because the Captain didn't punish him and torture him like Pierce and Yakov and Rumlow and Lukin and Shostakov. The Captain said he wasn't Hydra. That still confused the Soldier to no end. If he wasn't with Hydra, who was he with? SHIELD was Hydra, so this couldn't be SHIELD. It wasn't the KGB. When he'd been with the KGB and the Red Room, they always spoke Russian. Besides that, it was always cold in Russia, and his handler had been especially cruel during those few years. So he tried not to think about that too much. The structure of things was most like Hydra, and he was in America. Hydra had strong bases in America. He nodded, satisfied. He was still with Hydra and had probably just been misunderstanding the Captain's words.

He sighed and laid down on the bed, then got back off immediately when the mattress sunk under him, molding to his body. Nervous, he tested the surface. It sank, but only to a certain point. He shoved the blankets off the bed and laid down, curling in on himself as he always did and taking slow, deliberate breaths to prepare to sleep. He decided that the bed was rather comfortable, although it was too soft and the pillows were too big (he shoved those off the bed too) and he was afraid he would suffocate if he sank too far. His handler wouldn't give him a dangerous place to sleep…

Unless it was a test of some kind. The Soldier hated tests. They were unexpected and dangerous and, if he failed them, caused him pain. Well, he'd sleep on the floor with the blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is a fairly short chapter. At the time I wrote/published it on FF.net, I was about to take a break from fandom-related things for my own sake. Anyway...
> 
> Please review!


	7. Blueberries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All that is gold does not glitter,  
> Not all those who wander are lost;  
> The old that is not strong does not wither,  
> Deep roots are not reached by the frost.  
> From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
> A light from the shadows shall spring;  
> Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
> The crownless again shall be king." - J.R.R. Tolkien

Bucky was woken up by the sound of a cool, male, British voice calling his name. "Sergeant Barnes," it said. "Captain Rogers would like you to know that supper is ready. If you would like, I can direct you to the dining room."

The Soldier hesitated, then nodded, supposing that the voice was a real person that was monitoring him at all times and could therefore see him. "Very good," the voice said. (Hadn't the Captain said his name was Jarvis? He thought so.) Bucky dressed and used a rubber band to hold his hair back. "Go out the door, turn left." Jarvis continued to give him directions, telling him where to turn and which flights of stairs to take in order to get to where the food was. Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. He used to be hungry a lot.

The Captain and the technician and Wilson and Romanoff and the scientist that turned into a giant were seated at a table eating and talking quietly. Bucky hesitated before walking over to them and coming to attention by his handler's chair. The Captain turned to look at him.

"Hey Buck," he said, smiling kindly. "Come sit down. We've got spaghetti and garlic bread and fruit salad."

The Asset carefully sat down in the indicated seat, eyeing the food. Rich, varied odors came from it, and he had honestly never smelled anything like it before. He sniffed deeply, frowning a bit when the other people in the room gave each other amused looks. What had he done that was so funny?

"Do you want me to help you get some food?" his handler asked. The Soldier thought for a moment, deciding that he was supposed to eat now anyway, so it would be alright to let the Captain get him food.

"Yes sir," he answered.

His handler got up and grabbed a plate off the other side of the table, which he filled with strange, stringy food covered in red sauce (the spaghetti, probably), bread, and fruit. The Soldier accepted the plate and silverware and started eating. He ate slowly and carefully; he'd discovered that if he slowed down when he ate, it didn't make him feel sick, and the food tasted better. Taking a bite of spaghetti (which was an interesting feat in and of itself), he frowned at his fork. He didn't much like silverware; he'd been taught how to efficiently kill a person with a spoon, a fork, a dinner knife, or almost any other utensil. That made it a bit... uncomfortable to use them to eat food with.

"Do you like it?" asked Romanoff coolly. The Soldier shrugged. 'Like' wasn't a word he used very often. The food he was used to was tasteless and stiff, full of calories, protein, and nutrients perhaps, but it didn't make him feel good like this food did.

"I think so," he muttered. After he finished the stringy food, he started eating the bread, which made him feel good too. He conveniently ignored the conversations going on around him in favor of focusing on his food. He finished the bread and moved on to the fruit salad, scooping a mouthful of strawberries, peaches, blueberries, and bananas into his mouth. It tasted vaguely familiar.

_He was standing on a grassy hillside covered in green bushes, barefoot, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He could feel the breeze in his hair and on the back of his neck._

_"Hey, Buck, I found some!" A blond-haired boy, grinning proudly, ran over to him and gave him a handful of fat purple berries. Steve. "They're all over there. They're mostly ripe." Bucky chuckled and took some of the blueberries from Steve, popping them into his mouth. They exploded on his tongue, warm and impossibly juicy._

_"Thanks, punk. These are good! Let's go pick some more."_

"James? Hey, James, are you in there?"

Bucky blinked and shook his head, confused. Wilson's voice didn't belong here.

"Come on, James, look at me."

The grassy hillside disappeared, and Bucky didn't want it to, but a moment later he was back in his chair at the table. He'd apparently half risen from his seat, and Wilson was standing in front of him with a calm, understanding look on his face, hands out in an open gesture. The Captain looked very concerned. The Soldier was humiliated. He'd probably disobeyed some kind of order, or ignored something his handler said, while he was undergoing... whatever just happened to him.

"What did you see, Bucky?" Wilson asked gently.

The Asset blinked, wondering how the man had known what happened to him. This was probably a test of some sort. He glanced around at the other people, who were all watching. He hesitated, then said, "There was a hill. And... blueberries." He thought, remembering the tastes and smells. "There was a child, too... I called him a punk. I think his name was Steve." He shrugged. "I didn't see any threats."

The Captain made a strange, strangled little noise, and Romanoff rubbed his shoulder briefly.

"Okay," Wilson said. He must be a doctor, the Soldier decided. They always asked him questions and they weren't as loud or cruel as the other people that dealt with him. "I think you had a flashback. The other person sounds like it was Captain Rogers."

Captain Rogers? That tiny, weak little person had been his handler? He thought back again. In the flashback he'd liked the Captain. They'd been... he searched for the sensations again. It was an odd feeling, nothing like he knew from missions. He frowned. "He was small." The little kid in the flashback couldn't be the tall, strong man in front of him. It didn't make sense.

"You remembered something, Bucky," the Captain said, sounding both excited and sad at the same time. "I used to be small until I was given the serum."

Oh. The serum. The Asset remembered now, from the museum. There had pictures of a very skinny man at the museum... that must have been the Captain.

"Was it frightening? The flashback?" Wilson asked.

"No..." the Soldier murmured, thinking. He was uncomfortable now that he realized what had happened, however. If he had a flashback on a mission, he could die. He hadn't even been aware of what was around him. "It was safe. It felt... it felt..." He glanced at his handler to see if he was doing the right thing. "Good. It felt good," he decided. Because it had. Now it didn't anymore, though. The memory felt like it should be important, but it belonged to someone else. He didn't know who he'd been in that flashback, but whoever it was… it wasn't him.

Steve wasn't sure whether to be jubilant or disappointed. Bucky looked lost and confused. He clearly didn't understand what had just happened to him, and Steve wasn't surprised. From his own experience, flashbacks were never good. They were always linked to something traumatic and painful.

They finished dinner, Sam asking Bucky careful questions about what had happened, while Bucky looked less and less comfortable and retreated into the safety of one-to-two word answers. Steve focused on his food, although he sensed his friends looking at him worriedly. After the meal, Bucky went back to his room to shower before maintenance work was done on his arm, and Sam called a meeting, because obviously they had a new development to discuss.

"So what was that?" Tony asked. He'd been pretty quiet throughout the whole thing, for once. "Are you sure that wasn't just a regular memory? It doesn't sound like the flashbacks I've had."

Sam sighed. "It was a flashback. I'm not quite sure why it was a flashback, but I think… with him things aren't going to be normal, because obviously his memories have been erased or buried or whatever. I think maybe the blueberry picking memory became a flashback because it came back to him so hard. Some memories of his might do that, good or bad. I don't really know, that's just my guess."

Tony nodded. "Gotcha."

Bruce spoke up, quiet, worried. "He's going to go through hell. Again."

They all agreed, silently. Half of them had their own experiences with PTSD, and flashbacks were the worst of it. They all knew that whatever had happened to Bucky, it hadn't been rosy sunshine and rainbows. Not even close. The more he remembered, through dreams or triggers or flashbacks, the harder it would be for them, and him. Bucky was already unstable; what would happen when he started remembering? Being tortured for around 70 years was bad enough, but the fact that he'd killed dozens of innocent targets during that time period, too… what was left of James Buchanan Barnes was going to be devastated.

Tony finally spoke again. "What the hell have you gotten us into, Rogers?" he accused.

"What do you mean, Stark?" Steve answered, letting cold anger bleed into his voice. He sensed that now was not a good time to get into this, but he couldn't help it. His emotions were raw and on the surface at the moment.

"You know damn well," Tony snapped.

"Tony..." Bruce said quietly. The genius didn't listen (Steve was beginning to sense a pattern).

"We're all endangered by this, okay? And yeah it was my idea to let him stay here, but this, whatever this is... this isn't gonna work. You know what flashbacks are like. Don't tell me you've never hurt anyone or broken anything during one of those things. I know I have. Barnes' memories are worse and more violent than any of mine. And we don't even know what kind of things will trigger those memories. We have to rethink this. Maybe SHIELD would-"

"No." Steve stared Tony down, daring him to keep talking. Even though the new SHIELD was much safer and less… Hydra, Steve was not willing to trust them with his best friend.

Tony scowled and shook his head. "Whatever, Cap. But we're going to have to put more safeguards in place. I'll have JARVIS monitor him for signs of flashbacks coming on or panic attacks or anything like that. For now." His face cleared then, however, and he added, "Anyway, I'm ready to do some arm maintenance for him now. Let's have a look at that crappy old Hydra tech."

* * *

Tony would never tell Steve (or anyone except JARVIS), but Bucky's arm was an incredible work of engineering and he was fascinated by it. It was designed to look like a real arm and give the Soldier maximum maneuverability, and to Tony, it was beautiful. He muttered to himself as he scanned it, while Steve stood a short way away watching with a furrowed brow. Barnes himself wasn't moving, and had adopted a strangely blank expression. Tony wondered if the man would flinch if he stuck him with a pin. Probably not, but Steve would.

What he was most concerned by was how he could remove the metal arm from Bucky without causing serious damage. The machinery was fused with his skin somehow, the scarring extensive and hideous. He also suspected that the arm was somehow directly connected to the nerves in Bucky's shoulder, and that would probably cause another painful problem. He wouldn't know anything for sure, however, until the final scan was complete and he could get a 3D holographic image of it.

Soon enough, the scan was done, and Tony used a sweeping gesture to bring the scanned image over to his workstation and blow it up to double the actual size. Barnes watched him, looking curious despite himself. Steve followed him over, but Tony ignored him. Something had caught his attention. He tapped on several small devices that were attached inside the Soldier's arm and zoomed in on them, then said lowly, "JARVIS, scan the arm for any more of these things."

After a moment, JARVIS answered, "There are fifteen of them, sir."

Tony swallowed and stared at the blinking holographic display. "Any tracking devices?"

"Just one." JARVIS zoomed in on the object in question.

"Scan for unknown substances."

Steve stepped closer to him. "What's going on?"

JARVIS spoke before Tony could answer. "There are no unknown substances, but there are two which do not seem to belong in the mechanics of this prosthesis." The names of the substances appeared, and the inventor glanced over them briefly. Then he eyed the scan again.

"Steve, buddy, your friend's arm is... not safe."

Steve walked up next to him and looked over the scan. Tony was about to start explaining everything, but thankfully the Captain wasn't as stupid as he acted, because he figured it out very quickly.

"My God," Steve breathed. "It's a time bomb."

"Pretty much. A time bomb that's gonna kill him if I can't defuse it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the flashback in here: I think I can safely say that I'm not ignorant about PTSD. I have done my research to the best of my abilities. Anyway, I know flashbacks are not (usually) about happy memories. However, I felt like it made sense to start off with a nicer memory before the real storm hits. Because it will. Also, Bucky isn't a normal case of PTSD, so... Don't blame my lack of knowledge. Blame my creative license. A little bit of fluff before everything goes to hell, so to speak.
> 
> I have a playlist developing for this story, if anyone is interested in that kind of thing...
> 
> Steve: "Brother" by Needtobreathe; "Miracles" by Coldplay  
> Bucky/Winter Soldier: "Demons" by Imagine Dragons; "Things We Lost in the Fire" by Bastille  
> Tony: "Ready Aim Fire" by Imagine Dragons; "Gold" by Imagine Dragons; "Polaroid" by Imagine Dragons  
> Natasha: "Shatter Me" by Lindsey Stirling; "Castle" by Halsey  
> Bruce: "Monster" by Imagine Dragons  
> All Avengers: "Immortals" by Fallout Boy; "Warriors" by Imagine Dragons
> 
> Yes, I like Imagine Dragons. Sue me.


	8. Kiryanov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When you feel my heat  
> Look into my eyes,  
> It's where my demons hide  
> It's where my demons hide.  
> Don't get too close  
> It's dark inside,  
> It's where my demons hide  
> It's where my demons hide." - Imagine Dragons, 'Demons'

As Tony explained it to Steve, the arm was designed to kill Barnes under certain situations, one of those probably being if someone tried to remove the prosthetic. There was a needle in the arm which would inject poison into Barnes' shoulder, five explosives that would at least badly injure the Soldier, if not kill him, and probably some other things that Tony hadn't caught yet.

He wasn't telling Steve (no need to damage his image just yet), but so far he didn't know how to bypass the security of the arm. Just one more problem to add to his growing list. He'd sent the Captain upstairs a while ago, claiming that he was "distracting him with his overprotectiveness". Bucky was still sitting silently in his chair. Tony felt a bit bad for keeping him in one place for so long, but he couldn't figure this out with only the 3D scan.

"JARVIS, is there any way I could remove any of the bombs without making them activate? I mean, Hydra had to have had a way to repair things and replace things without blowing up their Asset."

"I will know in a few hours, sir."

Tony sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Do me a favor, JARVIS, hack into SHIELD's files and find everything you can that would relate to this. Make a new file for me and I'll look at it later. Remind me to ask Natasha if she can help us tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

"Listen, Barnes." The Soldier looked up at Tony, eyes focusing. "I'm done with you for tonight. You can head back to your room. JARVIS will make sure you get there. Are you alright with that?"

"Yes." Barnes got up and walked away, out of his lab. Tony was, honestly, relieved to see him go. The Soldier made him nervous.

As soon as he was out of sight, Tony poured himself some more coffee… black, of course. He drank only black coffee after midnight. "JARVIS, I want the designs for Steve's new uniform."

Diagrams and statistics appeared around him, and he started working. If they were going to be a team, there was no way he was letting Steve keep wearing that awful Avengers uniform SHIELD had given him. It showed way too much of him (not that it was a bad view, but seriously) and the colors were painfully bright. Not to mention that it wasn't fireproof or bulletproof or, really, anything proof. So, obviously, he had to rectify the issue.

The new uniform would look a bit like Steve's old World War 2 uniform (but better, obviously). Tony intended to make it the best uniform the Captain had ever worn, including places where Steve could keep weapons, his cellphone, supplies, anything he needed. And of course, it would be durable material, too, tough enough to turn a knife blade. Probably. He hadn't run any tests because the uniform was only half-made. The actual design part of it, trying to decide how it would look, wasn't easy.

"JARVIS, which of these reds do you think Capsicle would like better?"

"Perhaps the darker, sir," JARVIS answered, sounding amused. "Although I think Captain Rogers would have a better answer to that question."

"I'm not asking him, J," Tony said, sighing. "How many times do I have to tell you? These new uniforms are surprises. I've almost finished the set of pants for Bruce, and then I can work on Natasha's outfit and weapons."

He settled down to work, gulping coffee out of his stainless steel mug and humming tunelessly to himself, occasionally exchanging light banter with JARVIS.

* * *

The next day, Steve and Tony came to a grudging agreement: Bucky was only allowed in certain parts of the tower, and he was to be kept away from Bruce unless one of the other Avengers was there. JARVIS had special orders to closely watch Bucky for any behavior that was even slightly unusual and inform all the Avengers immediately. Also, Tony locked down the top twenty floors of the Tower to everyone except Pepper, Rhodey, Maria Hill, and the team. He and Steve set up a workout regimen for Bucky to keep him fit and to make sure he burned off excess energy.

An unfortunate side effect of the new regulations was that Bucky had become even more withdrawn and never spoke unless asked a very specific question. Steve was worried, because he was fairly sure he understood the reason behind Bucky's relapse. The Tower was professional and restrictive, which was doubtless what the Winter Soldier was used to.

There were, however, several important differences between the Tower and Hydra: Bucky was never punished, he was given choices and asked for his opinion on things, and he was treated, in general, like human being. He didn't seem to understand these differences yet, although occasionally he watched Steve with a strange expression on his face. At lunch one day, Sam tried to find out how much Bucky remembered, and everyone at the table ended up losing their appetites (and Steve shattered a glass full of milk) as the Soldier calmly described some of the things that had been done to him.

"Ew, come on, Terminator," Tony grumbled, wrinkling his nose and setting down his glass of whiskey with a thud. Bucky was describing, a bit too vividly, how his metal arm had been attached. "That is not table talk. Didn't Hydra ever teach you manners?"

Steve glared at Tony, who simply shrugged, only slightly chastised. "What? I'm about to throw up. I mean, these potatoes were delicious going down, but I doubt they'll be as awesome on the way back up."

"Tony…" Natasha warned the genius, and he mumbled something under his breath, then closed his mouth and resumed eating his steak.

Bucky looked at all of them, apparently confused. Bruce's eyes were tinged with green, but Steve wasn't sure whether that was from nausea or the Hulk.

Sam looked apologetic, but determined. "Why didn't they give you something to numb the pain or put you under?" he asked, and Bucky's brow furrowed.

"Why would they?" he asked, simply.

"So that it didn't hurt you!" Steve burst out. The glass cracked in his fingers, but he didn't notice.

"Oh." Bucky shrugged. He looked at a loss. These questions probably freaked him out. "I don't think… They didn't… It wasn't important."

Steve's glass crushed in his fist, shards crashing noisily onto the table, and milk dripped everywhere. Everyone started working to clean it up, suddenly quiet. Steve examined the cuts on his hand and scowled. "Bucky, I promise if we have to work on your arm we'll make sure it doesn't hurt, alright?"

"Yes sir," Bucky muttered. He had cringed back, nervously eyeing the mess Steve had made.

Then Steve (he was always too impulsive) suddenly asked, "Do you remember me?"

Bucky blinked, and his eyes darted from side to side. "Yes…" he said hesitantly. "You're Captain Rogers of the United States Army. You're my handler and the leader of the Avengers."

Steve sighed and nodded, leaning back. "Yeah. I guess there's that."

Natasha caught his eye and shook her head, just a little, at him. She looked sympathetic, but he knew she was right. He shouldn't expect anything more just yet.

"So… I've decided that since I have a free afternoon-" Tony began, but then JARVIS interrupted.

"Sir, Miss Potts wanted me to remind you that you have a meeting at two this afternoon."

"JARVIS, I'm not going to a stuffy board meeting when I could be here playing with new technology."

"Is that what you would like me to tell Miss Potts when you aren't there?" JARVIS responded innocently.

"No! Nope, definitely not. Just tell her I have to help Steve's old war buddy with something super awesome and important and if she's mad she can take it up with Steve."

Steve decided he should speak up, then. "JARVIS, don't tell her that last part. I do not want to have to face Pepper's wrath when I didn't do anything."

"Except bring Bucky here," Tony grumbled.

"Which was your idea," Steve said shortly. "Believe it or not."

They all fell silent. Steve pushed what was left of his food around with his fork, wrinkling his nose. He was pretty sure if she tried to eat any of it he'd throw up, so he finally groaned and pushed his chair back and away from the table to stand up. "I'm gonna go for a run," he said.

* * *

Immediately after the meal, the technician took the Soldier back to his lab and started fiddling around with his arm again, talking briskly to Jarvis and Romanoff.

"So these could be remotely activated too?" he asked the redhead.

"Probably. It makes sense. If Hydra lost track of their Asset for too long, or if he broke their conditioning, then they'd have to have a way to get rid of him without directly engaging him. They trained him to be the deadliest assassin and fighter in history."

"That means we have even more of a time limit," the technician moaned. "I might be working on that arm one day and BOOM! I'm dead without even doing anything."

Romanoff gave the man an unimpressed glare. "Are you telling me you can't disarm it?"

"No! What do you take me for? Of course I can disarm it. Nice pun, by the way, Red."

"To be honest, though, I think it's unlikely for them to be disabled remotely right now. Hydra is in pieces and probably doesn't even have access to parts of the Winter Soldier program."

The Soldier stopped paying attention as the argument progressed. The technician talked incessantly, which was distracting and the opposite of what he was used to, and it was a lot easier to ignore him than to pay attention to his confusing comments. Yesterday he kept talking about how much Bucky Barnes meant to Steve and how Bucky better not hurt him and how his arm was awesome and various other things. Today he kept asking if he was hurting him at all as he carefully opened access panels in the arm and took a closer look at everything. The Soldier wasn't in pain, but he was growing irritated by the constant talking. It was like having a fly buzzing around by his ear and refusing to be swatted away. Now that would be interesting. He could probably hit the technician away from him just like a fly and watch him smash into all the equipment and then he wouldn't be able to touch the Asset anymore…

The Soldier shuddered, discomfited by his own thoughts, and tightened both hands into fists on his lap. If they knew what he'd been thinking just now he'd be punished and wiped for sure. He focused his gaze on his knees and the creases in the denim of his jeans, trying to silence his raging thoughts.

"Hey Barnes, I'm gonna try something, if it's okay," the technician said, close to him. Bucky forced himself not to flinch. "JARVIS says it only has a 5% chance of making you blow up, so I'm risking it."

"If Steve knew you were doing this, Tony, he'd kill you," Romanoff said dryly.

"Yeah, but he doesn't," he snorted.

Romanoff just raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, glancing over to meet the Soldier's eyes. He looked away. She was strong and fast and her eyes watched him closely, as unreadable as steel. She was familiar… She was…

A mission. That was it. He'd been given a mission. When was it? Russia, back in the early 90s, probably. There was an academy. It was cold there all the time; the Soldier was used to it, but the little girls were not. It was warmer than the streets, though. He was supposed to train them to fight.

At first, all the girls were afraid of him. He was supposed to intimidate them, it was part of the mission. Headmistress had him kill one of them (she'd made a fatal mistake and spoken out against the conditions at the academy). All of the other trainees were frightened, then, except for the red haired one. She just stared at him with those big green eyes, assessing, calculating. Nervous, but not afraid. Headmistress told him that she was the best dancer and the smartest and the best shot and the fastest, but her hand-to-hand combat was lacking and she had no conviction.

He discovered that she had a spark of ingenuity and inventiveness that the other students lacked. She was a fast learner, unlike some of the girls, and she could think well on her feet. Since she was Headmistress' prize pupil, the Soldier spent extra time training her, challenging her to fight harder and fiercer until their sparring matches bordered on deadly and Lukin started coming to watch and make sure that his Asset did not kill the Headmistress' best student.

Natalia Romanova. Quick and light and passionate and fierce and nearly his equal in everything, fiery red and endless black. Yes, that was her. He knew her. She was one of his missions. She was the Black Widow now. Russia's greatest assassin.

The access panel on his arm was opened, and the Soldier could faintly feel the technician poking around inside his arm. He flinched a little when the man tugged on something; it sent sparks of pain flaring up his arm into his shoulder.

"Sorry!" The technician eyed him carefully. "Please tell me I didn't make you get injected with deadly poison just now."

"No," the Soldier muttered. He was trying to remember something. He'd had to leave the academy before Natalia's training was done… but he couldn't remember why. They'd probably wiped him after he left. He had trouble remembering details of missions, especially the old ones, because of that. Training usually came back to him pretty clearly, but he had to work to visualize what had happened on missions.

"Sir, Captain Rogers is requesting entry to the lab," Jarvis said.

The technician cursed and pulled his tools away from the Asset's arm, snapping shut the access panel and shoving his rolling chair across the room. He started tinkering with some wires and some other objects. "Let him in."

Natalia rolled her eyes. "Tony…"

"Anthony Edward Stark, what the hell are you doing?" His handler was furious. Apparently he knew what the technician had been up to and wasn't happy about it. At all. The Soldier made himself smaller in his chair and stared down at the floor, hoping this fight would stay between the Captain and the technician.

* * *

Natasha groaned inwardly, trying to decide whether to step in and keep the boys from fighting or to simply let them air their feelings out.

"Spangles!" Tony stood and spread his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. Playing innocent, as always. Steve looked like he was about to haul off and punch him in the jaw. "I was wondering when you'd show up. I think I might know how to disable the arm. See, I got the-"

"Are you kidding me, Stark?" Steve hissed. He was in deadly earnest. Natasha decided that she was going to have to have a talk with him later. "You could have killed him. You could have been killed. You don't just stick your tools in there and move stuff around! Even I know that much."

"Well, look at what I found out, though, _Captain,_ " Tony snapped. "If I'm careful, I can get the bombs out." Steve's angry expression eased only slightly. "Okay, that's great, but damn it, Tony, that was too reckless! You could've… What if it hadn't worked? Bucky wouldn't be the only person who got hurt it would be you and Natasha and…" He stopped and ran a hand over his face, frustrated.

Natasha sighed, starting to say something to calm them both down, then something beeped softly and she'd only just begun to move when the tiny bomb, innocuous on the work tbale, exploded. She launched herself, by instinct, at Bucky, tackling him to the floor protectively, before the fire and pressure of the blast slammed into her. She couldn't hear anything. Her back stung from the heat.

She didn't move for a few moments after the blast ended, ears ringing, back and arms throbbing. Then she felt Steve's hand tentatively on her shoulder, and she twisted to look at him.

His mouth was moving, and she read his lips _. Can you hear me?_

She shook her head. All she heard was the dull rush of her blood. She wasn't sure how long she'd be without hearing, but she'd be fine. She waved him away and pointed at Tony. Steve nodded and hurried over to check on the billionaire.

She looked down at Bucky, whose eyes had gone blank with terror. She got off him and collapsed back onto her hands, sucking in a pained breath.

He started saying something, and Natasha stared at him, momentarily shocked.

 _Natalia_. He was saying her name. She blinked and straightened her posture, and responded, forming her words carefully since she couldn't actually hear them.

"I'm fine, Kiryanov," she said. "I'm alright."

He nodded and moved away from her to sit back down in his chair. She carefully probed her back and shoulders, wincing. Some second degree burns where her shirt didn't cover her skin, and lesser burns on her shoulder blades and lower back. Nothing she hadn't dealt with before. She carefully set her hands on the floor and pushed herself to her feet, swaying briefly when a wave of dizziness hit her.

Steve was back. He spoke slowly to make sure she understood him. She still couldn't hear more than a vague humming.

_Tony is fine._

Natasha nodded, relieved. Tony was an ass, but none of them particularly wanted him hurt. She could see rage in Steve's blue eyes, burning cold like dry ice. She nodded sympathetically at him, knowing what he was thinking. He was hating Hydra for putting explosives like that in his best friend's arm. He was worrying about her. He was wanting to strangle Tony (she was with him on that one). And, she realized, he probably wondered what had just happened between her and Bucky.

Steve took charge (of course) and led all of them out of the lab and upstairs. He walked next to her, lending her his strength with his nearness. Bucky – she used to call him Kiryanov in the Red Room; they told her that was his name – walked by Tony, making sure he was alright.

The first thing they saw when they got upstairs was a muscular blond man channel surfing Tony's TV.

Clint turned to look at them, grinning, then his jaw dropped. The combination of the Winter Soldier and their burned clothes and skin apparently stunned him. Natasha signed a greeting in ASL, then explained quickly that she and Tony couldn't hear very well for the moment. He nodded and asked her what happened. She spent a few minutes giving him the basics of what had been going on over the past two days, then she asked, "How is Laura?"

He chuckled, signing, "She's fine."

"And the kids?"

"They're good."

"Good."

Steve's eyes followed their conversation, but she knew he couldn't speak ASL, so Clint's secret was safe. The archer started asking Steve questions then, but Natasha didn't bother paying much attention. Instead, she walked into the kitchen to get some water to drink and burn medicine from the medicine cabinet.

After a few minutes of drinking the cool water, she started carefully peeling off her charred shirt, trying not to rub it against her burns too much. She'd have to get someone to help her put the medicine on. She was going to ask Steve, but then she realized it would make him uncomfortable, and besides, he might ask her about Bucky. She was not ready to talk to him about the Red Room.

She chose to go to Bruce. The doctor was startled to see her, but he helped her treat her back while she told him what had happened. He was very gentle and understanding, and he didn't ask questions.

She managed to avoid Steve until that night; having skipped going to dinner, she was talking to Clint in the gym after sparring when Steve's voice startled her. Briefly, she was frightened, but then the illogical reaction passed and she straightened her spine. She didn't have to tell him the truth, after all. She could always lie.

"Natasha, we need to talk."

He was using his Captain voice. Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is all very bad. Natasha has a secret, Steve is mad at Hydra, Tony is an ass, Bucky is confused, and things went BOOM. Chapter summary, right there.
> 
> Please review!


	9. Procedures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." - Robert Frost

Natasha and Steve walked out of the gym together, leaving Clint staring after them, confused. She started planning out what to tell him, but she wasn't given much time to do so because he stopped her out in the hallway, his hands going to his hips and his jaw squaring. He was already preparing for a fight, which was actually pretty smart of him. However, she could be just as stubborn as him when she wanted to be.

"What's up?" she asked innocently.

He raised one eyebrow at her, unimpressed. "Well, for starters, you've been avoiding me."

"I wasn't avoiding you, Steve, I was just-"

"Nice try." He didn't even let her finish that lie. He knew her too well. And this, this was why she didn't let people get close to her. "What happened earlier, with Bucky?"

She glanced away, shrugging. "It wasn't… He was just confused."

Steve didn't look quite convinced. "Then why skip dinner just to avoid me?"

"I didn't know what to tell you. Besides, it's Shark Week." Normally, she would have reminded Tony and they all would have watched Shark Week together during dinner, but she didn't want to just admit that Steve was right and she had been avoiding him.

Yeah, he was just not fooled by any of her bullshit. The longer they were friends, the better he understood the way she dealt with things. Besides that, he had a natural ability to read people. "Natasha…" he sighed, narrowing his eyes. "Bucky is my best friend. If there's anything we can do to help him, I want to know about it." He hesitated, then looked down. "He called you Natalia. That was your old name. How did he know that?"

Now that he had her backed into a corner, he was less stubborn, almost pleading with her to give him the answers he wanted. She didn't have any particularly good lies left, so in a last ditch effort, she begged, "Steve, I just don't want to talk about it, okay? It wasn't important."

His expression softened, and he switched his hands from his hips to his pockets, but he didn't back off. "Tasha, I think I need to know."

He probably did, too. She just didn't want him to know some things about her yet. However, she sighed and started explaining. "He trained me for a while. In the Red Room." She didn't know what to do with her hands, so she crossed her arms as if to defend herself. "He was called Kiryanov then. Didn't talk a lot. Headmistress – my handler, sort of – she introduced him to us by having him kill one of the other girls." She stared at the floor between them, trying to keep her expression impassive. "I don't think I was afraid, I just… Anyway, he trained me most out of any of them. He was…" She searched for the right word. "Cold and intimidating. But we trained together a lot. We made a good team. And then…" How was she supposed to do this? She almost turned and ran, almost lied. She didn't want to do this. Steve would hate her, maybe. She kept her voice cold and professional. "We needed each other. It was a hard place to be, the Red Room. Our handlers weren't kind. So we…" She shook her head vehemently, didn't want to say the words. It was none of Steve's business, anyway. "We slept together. A few times. But then one day, Kiryanov – Bucky, I mean – his handler was trying to flirt with me. Generally being a creep." She smiled thinly. It had been only the first occurrence out of many like it through the decades. She'd grown to hate men like Lukin, but it wasn't a problem anymore. She wasn't called the Black Widow for nothing. "He, um… Bucky got really angry. I guess both of us had gotten too attached to each other… He attacked his handler." Steve raised an eyebrow in some surprise. "He was cursing Lukin up and down with a Brooklyn accent as thick as potato soup." Natasha still couldn't stop a small smile at the memory. It had been invigorating and humorous, at the time. "I think he would have murdered Lukin, but his conditioning was too strong. His handler got away, yelled some kind of trigger word at him. He stopped fighting right away." She tightened her jaw, closed her eyes briefly. Kiryanov's screams still echoed in her memory. "They wiped him and they made me watch. It's a procedure… I'm sure you saw it in his files, but they put him in a chair and electrocuted him until he passed out. When I saw him next, he was blank." She dared to look up at Steve's face with a little shrug. "He didn't remember me."

The Captain looked heartbroken, and for once, Natasha wasn't sure what he was going to do. She waited for him to say something, to ask her why she hadn't told her sooner, to reprimand her for lying to him. But he didn't. Instead, he shook his head and looked down.

"I'm sorry, Nat. I shouldn't have made you tell me about all that."

She blinked. "I…" How did Steve keep surprising her? At this point, she should know the way he thought. "No, you needed to know," she finally sighed. "I'd rather you hear it from me than anywhere else."

His ocean eyes were tinged with grey compassion. She stopped looking at them.

Steve reached out, tentatively, and pulled her into a hug. She was startled for a moment, but then she relaxed, accepting the comfort. Those memories were ones she didn't like to think about, all of them cold.

After a moment she pulled away, giving him a grateful smile. "He's going to be very confused," she said. "He probably thinks this is Hydra, still, but I'm from the Red Room. We're going to have to use this to convince him that he's not with either of them anymore."

"Do you think he'll listen?"

"With you leveling those puppy eyes at him and my Russian, yeah, he probably will. I just don't know what his reaction will be."

Steve gaped indignantly for a moment, before spluttering, "Puppy eyes?"

"Oh definitely, Cap, they're famous. Ask Tony or Clint, they'll tell you."

"I do not have puppy eyes!"

Natasha laughed at him and punched his arm, then they walked upstairs to look for Bucky.

* * *

Early the next morning, Tony was already in the lab with Barnes again, his hair still singed and his left arm still red with several painful burns. He was determined to figure this problem out before Barnes got blown up. So far he'd avoided a lecture from Steve, mostly because Steve probably thought that he'd learned his lesson. Which he hadn't. There was a lot the Star Spangled Man with a Plan didn't know about Tony Stark, but he would soon.

It seemed that the explosives were rigged so that if they were removed from their housings, they'd blow up on a timer. Because everything just had to be more complicated.

"Okay JARVIS, pull up my BuckyArmDISASTER_FixItFelix file, please," he commanded, rolling up his sleeves.

The file appeared at his workstation, neatly organized into categories, containing info on Wolverine's adamantium skeleton, prosthetics made of various materials, Hydra's strange mechanical eye implants… basically anything that Tony thought would be at all relevant to this situation. So far, it was looking like he'd have to directly hack into the technology and deactivate it. That wouldn't be too hard, but there was always the danger of a failsafe of some kind that made the bombs detonate before he could finish hacking them.

Still, better than just leaving the arm as it was. He just had to explain to Steve first what he wanted to do.

"So, Terminator, I have an idea," Tony said to Barnes pleasantly. He always liked to talk while he worked, and while he could have just talked to JARVIS, he wanted to make an effort to be friendly with the Soldier. "And I think I can keep you from blowing up."

Barnes blinked, brow furrowing.

Tony sighed. "Now would be a good time for you to congratulate me as a genius and tell me how glad you are that you aren't going to die."

"Thank you for keeping me alive," Barnes mumbled, his expression blank.

Geesh. Why were super soldiers so hard to impress? Tony started working again, mumbling to himself. If he had JARVIS hack into the main electrical network of the arm and deactivate it, then he could probably hack into the bombs and syringe and deactivate those. Once he did that, he could open up the arm and pull the murder devices out and after that, he could take the arm off and make a stronger, better one for Bucky (although he wanted to keep the same appearance; it looked so freaking cool) but maybe it would be smart not to give Bucky his arm back right away because he was gonna freak out a lot and Steve would probably agree with him, but he didn't care what Steve thought because Steve was just a stupid World War 2 relic with muscles and a pretty face and Steve got in the way of Tony doing what he wanted to do.

"Hey J, can you tell Bruce and Nat and Steve and Clint to come down here?"

"Of course, sir."

Tony occupied his time waiting by running a few last tests on Bruce's stretchy pants. Fireproof, check. Impossible to rip, check. Basically bulletproof, check. Laser proof, sort of check. Vibranium or adamantium proof? He couldn't really test that. Probably not.

"What's up, Tony?" Clint asked, sauntering into the room. He looked like he was tired but trying to hide it.

"We have to decide what to do with our friend Bucky's arm. I have a plan, but I want Avengers approval."

"Oh." Clint nodded politely to Barnes and sat down on one of the many tables in the room. He was holding one of his arrows, twirling it between his fingers effortlessly.

It was only about five more minutes before Bruce, Natasha, and Steve made their way to the laboratory. Tony put down the scraps of wire and metal that he was fashioning into a mini bicycle and crossed his arms over his chest, moving over to stand by Barnes. He noted, briefly, that Barnes' focus shifted from his knees to Natasha when she walked into the room.

"What's going on, Tony?" Steve asked, arms crossed over his chest. The super serum gave that guy some huge muscles. Steve's biceps were as big as Tony's head, for crying out loud!

"Well, Sleeping Beauty," Tony began. Steve rolled his eyes. "According to my research, I can disable the stuff in Terminator's arm. With JARVIS' help, of course. We'll hack into the arm itself and turn off all security and sensors. Then we'll hack into the inner workings of the arm, specifically the weapons, and turn them off. Then I get to figuring out how to get the damn thing off him without hurting him." He took a breath. "If you guys all agree, I'll get started right now."

Clint nodded pretty fast. "Sounds like a good idea. What do I know about technology? Anyway, I gotta go do something." He took off before anyone could say anything.

"Okay….." Tony drawled. "Bruce, I'll need your help after I get the arm disabled."

"You have it," Bruce said firmly. He adjusted his glasses and sent a kind smile in Barnes' direction. Barnes was still staring at Natasha.

Sam shrugged. "I'm good with it. Steve?"

Steve and Natasha looked at each other, then Steve nodded at Tony. "It makes sense. Worth a try, I guess."

"Okay, fantastic! I'm gonna go ahead and get started-"

"Oh no you're not." Everyone, except for Natasha, froze. Tony groaned inwardly and began writing his own eulogy. Pepper Potts marched into his lab in her three-inch black stilettos, business suit and skirt immaculate as always. He really wanted to kiss her, except she was furious. "Anthony Edward Stark, you have a lot of explaining to do. I needed you at that meeting the other day, and in case you forgot" – she came straight up to him and shoved him back a few steps – "We had a dinner date last night. Which you did not attend. The press is already eating it up. PR has a lot of work to do to keep this one from spreading, you wasted perfectly good dinner reservations, and you didn't tell me that Bucky was here." She put her hands on her hips and glared balefully at him. "I want an explanation and I want one now."

"Uh, hi, Pep." Tony cleared his throat, shuffling his feet. "I didn't mean to forget the date, I was trying to keep Bucky from blowing up."

Pepper just raised one perfect eyebrow at him. He kept explaining.

"See, his metal arm has bombs in it, and poison, and a tracking device, and I have to get all that stuff out before I can even take the arm off of him. And I was digging around in there and I just forgot – you know how I am while I'm working, Pep, so please don't be mad – and yesterday afternoon I almost blew up and…"

"That's enough, Tony," Pepper finally sighed. "We'll talk more later, alright?" She directed her piercing green eyes at Steve. "Would you introduce me to your friend?" she asked him.

* * *

Bucky watched the newcomer to the lab nervously. From the way his handler spoke to her, very kindly and deferentially, and the way the technician, Stark, was almost afraid of her, he suspected she was a very powerful person around here. He thought that was strange though – women didn't have strong positions in Hydra; neither did blacks or Jews or other minorities. Why should they?

But the Red Room… that was different. And Natalia wasn't afraid of the woman. On the contrary; she moved forward and hugged her. He was so confused.

"Hey, Nat," the woman said, smiling. "How's everything going?"

"Oh, not bad," Natalia chuckled. "Lots of testosterone."

The other woman nodded sympathetically. "What do you say we go out for coffee?"

"Good idea." Both of the ladies turned and walked out of the lab. As soon as they were gone, Captain Rogers burst out laughing.

"Tony, you should have seen your face. You looked like you were facing a firing squad."

"Hey, don't joke about that, I might still have to," the technician muttered.

The Captain just laughed harder.

The Soldier frowned, slightly puzzled. Normally, his handler talked about not hurting anyone and not punishing him… now he was laughing because the technician might die. Then again, he and Stark had been fighting yesterday, and then something blew up; maybe the tech deserved it.

"Well, I better get started while I still can," Stark muttered, and the Captain stopped laughing, his face smoothing into a grim smile.

"Yeah. I'll stick around."

"You do that."

* * *

It ended up taking Tony exactly two hours to disable the arm. Although it was a touchy process, with a few moments of unnecessary panic, the job was done faster than anyone had expected.

"Now, your arm is going to be a dead weight until I can take it off; sorry about that. I just can't finish working on it tonight; I owe Pepper a date and a night in, probably."

The Soldier, naturally, didn't respond, but Steve nodded. "Great. Okay, Buck, you've got some free time now; if you need anything, I'll be in the gym."

Steve straightened from where he'd been leaning on the wall and strode out of the lab; Tony started cleaning things up and straightening. He heard Bucky get up to leave, but didn't pay much attention. He had projects to get to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this chapter a long time ago and then I didn't post it... for some reason. Soooo... Anyway. Here's a chapter for you, which I'm pretty sure I like but I haven't actually read it in a while because as I said, I read it and edited it forever ago.
> 
> Love ya'll! Please review!


	10. Machinery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No matter how much suffering you went through, you never wanted to let go of those memories." - Haruki Murakami

The Soldier felt off-balance and vulnerable with his metal arm deactivated. He'd almost never had to do things without it fully operational; now it was a dead weight making his gait graceless and clumsy. He got through lunch as best as he could, trying to function as normal.

That was what he was trained to do, after all. Function as normal even with a bullet wound in his thigh or a knife in his stomach or missing limbs or no clothes or frostbite or whatever may occur in the course of his missions. The metal arm, though… It almost never stopped working, and when it did it rebooted itself within a few minutes. He was aware that right now it wasn't supposed to work, which probably meant that this was training, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with.

He scooped himself a plate of macaroni and cheese, then sat down to eat it, reciting protocols under his breath and trying desperately to ignore the worrying heaviness of his metal arm tugging painfully at the nerves and skin of his shoulder. He already hated having his arm deactivated and he would make sure it never happened on mission… trying to fight like this would be a nightmare.

After they finished eating, the scientist and the technician informed him that they would be taking his metal arm off to replace it with a new and better one. The Soldier almost shuddered but stopped himself in time. Tech upgrades to the arm hurt, hurt like hell, but he knew better than to flinch. Once the procedure started, it would probably be impossible not to react, but he never got terribly severe punishments for his screams.

His handler had him lie down on a hospital-type bed, white and a bit too soft. Several times they warned him that they were going to do something like put a needle in his vein or check his blood pressure, but for the most part it was quiet.

The Soldier was fairly relaxed, even with the technician and the scientist fussing around his shoulder. He was just managing to zone out and let his mind go blank (Hydra called it his mission mindset) when, without any warning, something sharp was pressed into his shoulder.

_Bucky was lying on cold unyielding metal, pure agony burning in his shoulder as flesh and metal melted and wire and nerves sparked. The whole time his new arm was being grafted onto him, skin and bone cut and shaped, Zola stared at him with cold, snakelike eyes and smiled smugly. Bucky's chest, waist, right arm, and legs were strapped to the table with thick black leather, but he was trying to struggle all the same, screaming incoherent curses until he finally blacked out from the agony._

_They had to literally drag him to the chair after that, beating him, shocking him, and digging cruel fingers into his burning shoulder. They forced him to sit, and the clamps sealed around his arms and he screamed hoarsely as the electricity burned him away._

"Bucky, come on, buddy, you're at Avengers Tower and you're safe now. Come on, Buck, look at me."

Bucky blinked and watched the past recede, to be replaced by the Captain's worried eyes. He had somehow tumbled off the hospital bed onto the floor and curled up in the fetal position. He felt tentatively along his shoulder and arm. It was still there. He was alright… sort of. The Soldier swallowed uncomfortably and climbed back into the hospital bed without a word.

Stark looked horrified. "I'm so sorry, Barnes. I'm such a screw-up. Damn. I'm sorry. I meant to tell you before I injected you but it felt so normal I..."

The Assert shrugged with one shoulder. The people here were so strange. Always apologizing, always making sure he wasn't in pain, acting like normal procedures were awful or odd. It wasn't a bad kind of strange, but it put him on edge and gave him ideas that terrified him. Ideas full of blood and the downfall of Hydra and freedom – what exactly was freedom? Anyway, he almost missed Russia. The Russians had always been better handlers and agents and slower to get angry, although the Americans didn't hurt him as much.

These people were definitely American, except for Natalia, but they didn't get angry often. They didn't punish him with anything more than words. They fed him real food that was good, not scraps or protein drinks. They were…

Not Hydra.

His handler kept saying this wasn't Hydra.

Was that even possible?

He hazarded a question. "Captain?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes?" His handler sounded exhausted. That was the Asset's fault.

"Where are we?"

"Avengers Tower, in downtown Manhattan."

"Oh." The Soldier paused. "But… are we Hydra? KGB? The Red Room? Who are we affiliated with?"

His handler smiled a little. "We're the Avengers, Buck. We save the world from people like Pierce. We want to take Hydra down."

The Soldier frowned, confused. ""But… Hydra has to give the world the freedom it deserves," he parroted. To his surprise, the Captain's eyes hardened angrily and he shook his head.

"No, Bucky. Hydra doesn't want to give anyone freedom. They want to take it away and hurt people. The Avengers fight people like them."

The Soviet assassin thought for a long moment about that. He really wasn't with Hydra, then. As a matter of fact, his new handler hated Hydra. He thought maybe he should be relieved by that, but all he felt was a _wrongness_ in his stomach. His handler shouldn't hate Hydra. Hydra gave him a purpose and a new arm and pain and they were right about everything. He shook his head slowly.

"Hail Hydra," he said.

"No, Bucky, not hail Hydra," the Captain said firmly. "Hydra's full of bullshit and they need to be stopped."

Bucky's mind started whirling with familiar phrases that his handlers always fed him about Hydra, about how he belonged to Hydra and how Hydra gave him everything he had.

"Hey Bucky, you're zoning out on us again," his handler called gently. The Soldier blinked and nodded to show that he'd heard.

"What are you thinking?" Natalia asked.

"I am... I don't understand. Hydra is… I'm Hydra's."

"No, Kiryanov, you don't belong to anyone. You're your own person."

"But I… I'm not… What is my mission?" He felt himself start to panic, unsure of himself. All his instincts were telling him to kill, to get out and find Hydra, but a new side of himself was arguing very strongly against that idea. He could choose to leave and find the cruel, cold and familiar, or he could stay with the uncertainty, not punished and fed well. Natalia Romanova was here, and he still didn't know why he remembered his old handler. He didn't like this. He had a choice and he didn't know what to do. It made his head hurt. He rocked silently back and forth, trying to control his breathing.

"You don't have a mission just yet," Natalia said reassuringly, touching his right shoulder. "Maybe once you're better."

He latched onto that idea with relief. "I can be better! I can do what you want and I won't have a flashback again; please give me a mission! I'm operational." He needed a mission. He needed to stop having flashbacks and questions and just _do_ something.

Captain Rogers and Natalia glanced at each other, then the Captain sighed and sank down to sit on a chair. Stark and the scientist went back to dismantling his metal arm and muttering quietly back and forth to each other. He couldn't feel his shoulder anymore, which was strange.

No one said anything about a mission. No one even spoke, except for when Stark told him they were going to start trying to take the arm off now. There was a tugging sensation in his shoulder, but otherwise he felt nothing. Once again he was wondering what he'd done wrong.

Finally the mild-mannered scientist spoke up, much to his surprise. "I think you're doing fine, Barnes," he said kindly. "But we do a different kind of mission than you're used to, and until you remember you won't be able to help us with them."

Remember? The Soldier thought about that. He was trying to remember… sometimes he thought about things and it made his head hurt because he didn't know something he should. "Remember what?" he asked.

The scientist shrugged. "Start by trying to remember how you know Steve over there. Does that sound good?"

The Asset glanced over at his handler, who was leaning forward, looking almost nervous. "Yes. Is that a mission?"

Natalia answered him. "I suppose it is."

The Soldier had a mission, then. He had to remember Captain Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, obviously, a shorter chapter. It was gonna be longer, but I felt like that line ^ was a natural ending point, so... Yeah. Sorry about stuff. Sorry about the flashback and... yeah. I'm just sorry. This chapter got out of hand.
> 
> The longer Bucky is out of cryo, the faster he will remember. In theory, anyway.


	11. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Anger is just anger. It isn't good. It isn't bad. It just is. What you do with it is what matters. It's like anything else. You can use it to build or to destroy. You just have to make the choice." - Jim Butcher

As it turned out, remembering was harder and more painful than the Soldier had anticipated. He would sit still, eyes closed, trying to find the memories of a past that he knew he had. But all he ever came up with were fragments and a blinding headache. It was becoming very frustrating. He had a mission, something to focus on, and he couldn't complete it. Adding to his aggravation, he was trying to adjust to having only one arm, and it wasn't going well. He felt slightly off-balance all the time, and even small tasks like putting on his clothes had become impossibly difficult. The Captain and his team kept trying to help, but that only frustrated the Soldier more. He was supposed to be able to take care of himself, and here he was making himself a burden, failing his mission, falling apart… he hated this.

Over the past week, all he'd succeeded in remembering was a mission from about twenty years ago. He'd been ordered to kill Howard Stark and make it look like an accident, so he had. If his memory was correct, he had hesitated before the kill. He'd been conflicted. He couldn't, however, remember why.

He hadn't had a flashback in all that time, either, which had been reassuring, but that Thursday morning as he ate his breakfast (buttered toast and orange juice) that changed as he was broadsided by a memory that made less sense than any of the others.

_He was hanging in cold, lonely space, his hands wrapped tight around a metal bar that twisted and screeched dangerously under his weight. Everything was white and cold, wind whipping at his face. Steve was hanging onto the side of the train, reaching out as far as he could towards Bucky._

_The bar groaned, bent._

_Bucky tried, he tried so hard to reach Steve's hand._

_But he couldn't._

_And the bar clanged and broke and he was falling._

_Falling._

_Falling._

_He was falling and the wind was cold and he couldn't see._

_He hit something on the way down, and he screamed at the pain in his shoulder._

_He was falling._

Bucky came back to himself, trembling, shaking, stunned. Natalia, who had helped him get his breakfast, was crouched in front of him, her small, strong hand massaging his shoulder gently.

His handler had let him fall.

His handler had let him _die_.

He didn't understand, yet, how the Captain and Hydra related to each other, but he thought maybe he had an idea. His handler had tried to get rid of him, or at least hadn't tried very hard to save him, and Hydra had picked him up and made him into what he was now. And his handler was angry because the Soldier was supposed to be _his_ asset, not Hydra's. Maybe the Captain felt like Hydra had stolen the Soldier from him.

But the Captain had let him fall and must have expected him to die, so he really shouldn't be so upset. The Soldier straightened (he'd ended up on the floor again) and stood up.

"Are you okay?" asked Natalia gently, looking him over briefly.

The Soldier hesitated; he wasn't sure what the honest answer to that question was. Because he felt, oddly, betrayed and angry, but physically he was fine. He finally settled for a shrug and a muttered "Yes," then he returned to eating his breakfast.

Natalia was still looking at him strangely; half the time he couldn't decipher her expressions, which he hated. Not only that, but there were things about her that he remembered, but didn't understand. Defending her from his handler, which made no sense and suggested, what…? Emotions that he didn't recognize colored his memories of her.

She switched to Russian. "What happened, Kiryanov?"

He thought about refusing to answer, just to see what would happen, but he decided against that course of action. He still didn't want to risk punishment. "He let me fall," he answered in Russian, trying to keep the betrayal and confusion out of his voice. "The Captain… he let me fall off the train."

Natalia nodded slowly, and she pulled out her phone, tapping lightly on the screen several times. The Asset's throat constricted; he'd done something wrong again. He'd questioned his handler, he'd made a mistake. He stopped eating and straightened in his seat, waiting to see what would happen next. What had he done now? Something angry boiled in his gut, something that felt like injustice… he had only done what Natalia said to do, so why should he be punished? That feeling scared him, but combined with the betrayal, it was intoxicating. He was angry now, too. His anger had no specific object _(or perhaps it did and he would not acknowledge it)_ , but it was there, hot and burning and threatening to make him do something dangerous.

A few minutes later, his handler arrived in the kitchen, sweaty and panting, his hands wrapped in protective tape. He looked wary, his blue eyes full of concern and hope and something sad, thoughtful.

"Hey Buck," he said. "Natasha says that you remembered falling off the train."

"Yes." The Soldier was afraid to keep looking into the Captain's eyes, afraid that he would notice all the anger the Asset was feeling.

"I'm sorry," his handler said frankly. "I tried to catch you, but... I couldn't."

A sharp retort sprang to the Soldier's lips, but he controlled it, pushed it away. "Yes sir," he said instead, voice flat.

The Captain's brow furrowed, and he glanced at Natalia. "Are you okay?" he asked.

The Soldier repeated his shrug and "Yes."

Neither Natalia nor his handler seemed convinced.

"Bucky, I didn't want you to fall," the Captain said firmly. "I'm so sorry."

"Yes sir," the Soldier said again. His voice sounded sharp, harsh. Angry. He swallowed. _Shit_. He hadn't meant to say it like that.

Naturally, his handler picked up on his tone, but rather than getting angry himself, he apologized again. The Soldier clenched his fists. The fury was gnawing at his throat now, trying to climb out, aching in his chest.

Betrayal.

The Captain kept apologizing.

"Damn you." For a moment, the Asset didn't realize, didn't accept, that the words were his. They grated in his throat, rough and contemptuous. The defiance felt powerful. Like a drug. He stepped forward, felt his fists clenched tight. "Shut up!" he growled, and shoved the Captain hard. That felt good too, but it brought him back to his senses.

Both his handler and Natalia looked stunned.

The Soldier began to panic, understanding his mistake too late. He knew better, he knew that would only cause him pain. After everything, he'd overstepped. He should have known... This mission was no good. He was broken, he was malfunctioning. He shook his head and took a pained step back. "I, I didn't... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." What could he say to fix this?

The Captain came closer immediately, and the Soldier tensed, waiting for a blow that never came. Instead, his handler did something very strange. He put his arms around him.

The hug felt too vulnerable, but somehow comforting too. The Soldier was afraid to relax, afraid to believe that he might really be allowed to go unpunished.

"God, Bucky," his handler murmured. "I am so sorry. You have every right to be angry, I know. I'm sorry."

"You let me fall," the Soldier said, quiet, bewildered.

"I know. I know. I tried, Buck, I promise I tried."

The Asset shook his head, pulling away, glancing between his handler and Natalia. "You didn't need me anymore. I understand. But..." He hesitated, tried to grasp the confusion he felt. "But what did I do wrong? Why did you... Why did you let me fall?"

The Captain's eyes were practically liquid with sadness and... pain? "I didn't want you to, Bucky."

Natalia spoke up then, stepping forward and touching his handler's shoulder. She seemed to understand. "I think... I think he thinks that you were unsatisfied with him and didn't need him as an asset anymore, so you let him die."

"No. Oh God, Bucky, no. Look, you were my friend, you were my best friend, and we worked together. I just couldn't reach you in time."

The Soldier looked down. Best friend. They had been friends. He wasn't entirely sure what that word meant, but he sensed that it was important. Maybe it was like an ally. Allies he could handle. He could still feel the anger, but it had cooled to a dim ember, leaving him with the chaos and pain and confusion.

"I understand," he murmured.

His handler looked searchingly at his face, then let out a deep sigh and started unwrapping the tape from his hands. "I'm gonna shower and then get some breakfast," he said.

"Okay," Natalia said.

The Soldier turned and walked back to the table to finish eating, accompanied by the now-familiar heaviness of his conflicting emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all! Please review!


	12. Protocol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without self knowledge, without understanding the working and functions of his machine, man cannot be free, he cannot govern himself and he will always remain a slave. - George Gurdjieff

It seemed that anger had become a permanent feature of Steve's mood. He got up in the morning and he was angry, he helped Bucky get himself breakfast and he was angry, he went a few rounds with a punching bag and he was angry, he spent time with his friends trying to relax and he was angry.

It made his head hurt and made him short-tempered with the team, but he couldn't help it.

And now, on top of all that, he felt severely guilty.

Bucky's words had struck a nerve, he couldn't deny it.

"Why did you let me fall?"

It wasn't so much that Bucky was right, it was just so jarring that he actually believed that Steve would ever do something like that. Purposely fail to save him… He was sick of playing this game. He didn't want to be Bucky's handler, he wanted to go back to being his friend, or even fighting him. How was he supposed to do this?

He had managed to convince himself, some time ago, that there was nothing he could have done, that he really couldn't have saved Bucky. But now he was questioning it again, reliving the moment over and over again in his mind. If he'd just climbed further out of the train, if he hadn't distracted Bucky, if he had just been faster, stronger, quicker, reached farther… All the possibilities that he'd tormented himself with for years coming back at him, thick and fast, like bullets.

So after finishing his shower, he didn't immediately go back to get his breakfast. Instead he sat down on his couch, closed his eyes, and sent up a desperate prayer.

 _God, I could really use an assist_ , he thought. _I can't do this._

Because he couldn't. He'd thought he could, and look how well that turned out.

There was no answering crack of thunder, no booming voice promising help, no angel proclaiming that everything would be okay. But he took a deep breath and stood, his raging thoughts calmed for the time being, and left his suite.

Bucky was nowhere in sight (he'd probably left to do his workout regimen), but Natasha and Bruce were sitting on the couch, chatting and channel-surfing. Steve joined them, and Nat tossed him a sympathetic look.

"You okay?"

"Mostly," he answered.

Bruce nodded. "Natasha told me what happened. I'm sorry."

"Well, it's better than him just taking it in stride." Steve propped his legs up on the coffee table and sighed. Natasha glanced at him, and he could tell that she was trying to figure out what he was thinking. He looked away, not sure he wanted her to know how worn out and confused he was.

"I hate to be a downer," Bruce said quietly, his brown eyes apologetic, "But I know more than anyone that anger can be dangerous. It's better than ambivalence, yes, but if we aren't careful, it could become a serious problem." He smiled wryly. "And frankly, we have enough trouble already."

Steve nodded, the heavy weariness settling over him again. He couldn't do this.

He just couldn't.

"So what do we do, then?" he asked.

Bruce sighed and shrugged. "I don't know. This isn't like anything I've done before. I think we just have to wait and see how he acts and respond appropriately."

"I guess." Steve closed his eyes briefly, breathing deeply, then he reopened them and focused on the TV.

* * *

"No, that's not right!" Tony flung his safety goggles down on his work table with an angry huff. "JARVIS, I can't make this work."

"Perhaps you should take a break, sir," JARVIS said. "You've been working on that project for precisely 37 hours and 12 minutes and haven't slept."

"Not until I at least start getting somewhere with it, J," Tony insisted.

He was always incredibly stubborn, the AI noted with some exasperation. How fortunate that he'd programmed JARVIS to be equally stubborn.

"Sir, I must insist that you at least take a moment to review several reports. There is growing concern from the public due to your closing of the Tower and PR is at a rather low percentage."

Tony let out a frustrated sigh and pushed his chair away from his worktable. "Fine. Light 'em up."

JARVIS projected the reports in question for Tony to see. He noted, as he did so, that Sergeant Barnes had ceased his assigned exercise in Gym C and had started pacing. As was his job, he calmly notified Captain Rogers, but suggested that he give his friend some time alone.

"This sucks," Tony grumbled. "It's none of their business why the Tower is closed. I should have thought about that."

"Yes you should have," JARVIS snarked.

Sam Wilson was listening to Adele in his suite. The AI privately filed that in his systems for use later.

"What if I start a new reno project? I could renovate the outside and lower floors of the Tower, which should buy us a few months."

"Shall I put together some plans, sir?"

"Yeah. Make sure it's not any higher than the office floors. And maybe do something nice for Pepper while you're at it."

JARVIS started running algorithms, sending emails, and discussing plans with Miss Potts as he stopped projecting the PR reports.

Tony went back to his designs. He was trying to both replicate and improve Sergeant Barnes' left arm, and although JARVIS knew he could do it eventually, for now his efforts were largely unsuccessful. The AI had long ago worked out a good pattern for the arm's mechanics, but he wasn't supposed to show Tony those plans until he asked for them. The genius preferred to work everything out on his own and merely use the digitally created plans as a comparison once he was mostly done.

Sergeant Barnes had stopped pacing. JARVIS devoted slightly more attention to him, concerned. The Sergeant's heartrate and blood pressure had picked up, and his stress and adrenaline levels were high. JARVIS informed the Avengers in the Tower.

Captain Rogers seemed anxious after that, but Agent Romanoff kept him from going down to the gym.

Clint Barton didn't acknowledge the information, too busy with target practice in the firing range.

Tony frowned. "I hope he doesn't break anything," he grumbled.

"Some might call that remark insensitive," the AI said, vaguely amused. He knew that Tony was actually concerned for the Sergeant, but of course the billionaire wouldn't admit it.

JARVIS felt a brief surge of fondness (outside of his programming, maybe, but still real).

Sergeant Barnes had resumed pacing, his right hand gripping his left shoulder. His heartrate had slowed, but his adrenaline and testosterone levels were still concerning. His expression could be interpreted as either aggressive or frightened; JARVIS interpreted it as aggression.

Once again, he told the appropriate parties what was going on. Sam Wilson left his room to find Captain Rogers. Tony heaved a sigh and left the lab.

All the Avengers congregated in the common room. JARVIS focused his attention on them and on Sergeant Barnes in the gym.

"Should we do something?" Captain Rogers asked. The AI noted that his adrenaline levels had risen.

"Like what?" Tony snapped. "Run down there and say 'hey, we're spying on you, and we noticed you seem unhappy'? Good plan."

"Not helpful, Tony," Agent Romanoff said.

"Well, maybe not, but you know I'm right. If he's aggressive right now, which JARVIS says he is, and JARVIS is never wrong-"

That wasn't strictly true, but JARVIS wasn't going to disagree.

"-then asking him to share his feelings probably isn't going to help."

"Yeah, but we should probably know what he's thinking," Clint said. "Whether we like it or not, we can't give him his privacy on things like this." He shook his head. "The safety of the people in this Tower has to come first."

Captain Rogers scowled, but he didn't say anything.

Sergeant Barnes strode out of Gym C and made for the elevator.

"If I may interrupt," JARVIS said. "But Sergeant Barnes has left the gym and appears to be coming upstairs."

The Avengers all exchanged looks. Their heartrates increased at the same time.

JARVIS watched Sergeant Barnes hesitate, his fingers hovering over the elevator buttons. "The Avengers are on the fifty-first floor," he said helpfully. "In the common area."

The Sergeant nodded shortly. Pressed the appropriate button.

JARVIS told the Avengers.

He got one of Tony's suits ready, as he was programmed to do when a threat arose. Because Sergeant Barnes was definitely a threat at this time.

They all waited.

Barnes stepped out of the elevator and strode through the hall towards the common area. JARVIS did not tell the team, deciding that Barnes would be likely to overhear and that that would not be good.

Captain Rogers was tense.

Sergeant Barnes' vital signs had finally settled, which JARVIS didn't understand, but judging from the assassin's posture and body language, it would not be wise to assume safety.

He came into view of the Avengers and halted. For a moment, he looked frightened. Then he came to military attention and stared at Captain Rogers.

"Who are you?" he demanded sharply. "Just tell me. Who the hell are you and what do you want?"

* * *

Steve glanced from side to side, half hoping someone else would answer for him. Unfortunately, no one volunteered. This was his problem to deal with.

Again.

"What do you mean?" he said carefully. He didn't know how to answer, didn't know what to do in this situation.

"Who are you?" Bucky repeated. In the face of Steve's nervousness, he seemed to grow bolder.

Steve hazarded what he thought was a safe answer. "I'm your handler."

"No." Bucky shook his head sharply, his eyes wary. "You said this wasn't Hydra or the Red Room or the KGB. So you aren't my handler."

Steve could almost feel the tension in the room thicken. He glanced at Sam for help. Sam just shrugged. Natasha was no more communicative.

"But I'm still your handler," he said firmly, trying to project authority.

Bucky's gaze was sharp, suspicious. Clearly he didn't like that answer. "I am not with Hydra," he said slowly. "I am not operational," he gestured at his shoulder, " You let me fall off the train, and Hydra ordered me to kill you." He appeared almost wolf-like now, cocking his head to one side and staring at Steve without blinking. "You're an enemy of Hydra?" he asked. It seemed to be a request for confirmation more than an actual query.

That was a loaded question. Steve swallowed, blinked, thought hard. What was a safe answer? Was there one?

"Sort of," he managed.

Bucky's eyes darkened and his posture shifted. The uncertain, shuffling fear was gone, replaced by the calm precision Steve had seen several times before. "I see. You stole me from Hydra and tried to make me your weapon, but you failed and I fell. Now you tricked me into staying with you."

They were losing ground. Natasha finally spoke up. "No, Bucky. Steve used to be your friend and we're just trying to keep you safe."

The Soldier glanced at her, and for a moment he hesitated, frowning. Then he straightened almost imperceptibly and said, "No."

An instant later he had pivoted and was running for the elevator.

"JARVIS, lock down the Tower!" Tony shouted. Steve sprinted after the Soldier, cursing inwardly. He hadn't expected this, but maybe he should have. Hydra had undoubtedly given him layers upon layers of protocol that were designed to lead him back to them should he go rogue or get lost.

Natasha came with him, and Sam. Between the three of them, with any luck, they should be able to get him to stand down.

"Bucky, wait!" Steve yelled. The assassin was pounding on the elevator doors, trying to force them open. When that didn't work, he turned to face them. To Steve's dismay, his expression remained neutral. "Bucky, come back. We need to talk about this."

"Kiryanov, stand down," Natasha added sharply.

Bucky appeared to listen to them, growing nervous and hesitant... before launching himself at Sam, tackling the black man to the floor and running back the way he'd come.

Steve swore and ran too, pausing only briefly to help Sam up. In the common area, Tony's suit was flying to him, Bruce was clinging tightly to the arm of the couch and taking deep breaths as a purple bruise spread across his jaw, and Clint was trying to talk Bucky down as he strode towards him.

"Soldier!" Steve shouted, full parade-ground voice.

The assassin paused, glanced his way.

"Enough!"

Bucky looked around, careful, assessing. Then he dove towards the window, probably fully intending to smash through it. That didn't happen, however, because Tony was finally in his suit and he grabbed Bucky's arm and pulled him away.

Steve felt a small measure of relief, even as he despaired at the look in Bucky's eyes. Anger, fear, distrust, deadly determination. The Asset was back... Although perhaps he'd never left.

"JARVIS, full security lockdown of the top fifteen floors, please," Tony ordered, adjusting his grip on Bucky so that he held him by both his arm and his torso. Bucky struggled in his grasp, but even he couldn't do much against a metal suit.

Steve slumped tiredly while Natasha went over to Bruce, put a careful hand on his shoulder, and started talking quietly to him.

"I guess..." The Captain paused. A small, petulant part of his mind wailed that this was unfair. "We can put him in his room for now."

"Okay." Tony started moving.

Bucky went quietly, but something in his grey eyes warned Steve not to take that as a good thing.

"Home protocol," Clint said quietly. "In SHIELD it was what an agent was supposed to do and how to act if they couldn't get back to base or were in a hostile situation. He probably has a literal home protocol and we just flipped the switch to 'on'."

"We need extra security measures for his room," Natasha said matter-of-factly. "He's dangerous right now. More than normal."

Steve choked back an angry retort, instead clenching his hands into tight fists and taking several slow breaths. She was right, they all were, but that couldn't keep him from getting defensive on his friend's behalf.

"What then?" he said instead, his words bitten off to hide his desperation. "What do we do then?"

Natasha looked down, her expression grim as she said what they were all thinking. "I don't know, Steve. I just don't know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go. Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare your paddles as we enter the rapids and please don't remove your lifevests. If you fall out of the raft, please cross your arms and remain calm. I will attempt to steer the raft to retrieve you.
> 
> Here begins the bad stuff. I would have warned you, but it came on me as suddenly as it did Steve.
> 
> Bucky is, unfortunately, suffering something of a relapse. This will eventually be rectified. How, I do not know. When? I don't know that either. It's a mystery.
> 
> I should warn you all, I'll be beginning to dig into Bucky's brainwashing more as we go on from here. I will be discussing torture, brainwashing, manipulation, and abuse. Bucky has been screwed with very badly. If any of you are triggered by descriptions of abuse, I suggest you proceed with caution.
> 
> Also, a brief note:
> 
> Authors are desperate for feedback. All of us, including me. Follows and faves are great, my lovelies, but I live for your reviews. Even a simple 'I am enjoying this' or a smiley face emoticon is enough for me. I write faster when I get reviews because then I feel like you're all actually reading this.


	13. Assassin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am turned into a sort of machine for observing facts and grinding out conclusions. - Charles Darwin

The Soldier was not too disconcerted when he was imprisoned in his room. He had long ago inspected the place and had determined that, although it was secure (with no windows, unfortunately), if he worked at it, there were a few things he could turn into weapons.

He paid more attention to the door now, tracing his fingers along its outline and trying to work out if he could open it. The metal was smooth and thick, and slid open and closed automatically. It closed by sliding into the wall so that there was no edge for him to grab hold of. And without his arm, it wouldn't be possible anyway.

He would have to use other means to get out, then.

As he canvassed the room, a memory came back to him, cold and slow and familiar.

Pierce was reprimanding him for a failed mission while Rumlow stood by, watching silently. The Soldier felt frightened and apologetic, a nauseating mix.

"Do you understand what you did wrong?" Pierce asked.

"Yes."

"Do you understand why it was wrong?"

"Yes."

"Good." Pierce put his hand on the Asset's right shoulder, gentle and reassuring.

Dangerous.

"But you know I can't let you go unpunished."

The Soldier nodded. Pierce got up and walked out of the room, leaving him alone with Rumlow.

Rumlow who smiled. Rumlow who lightly patted the Asset's head before he began to beat him.

The Soldier paused briefly, thinking, remembering. He didn't enjoy remembering these things, he decided. Equally, however, he supposed it couldn't be helped. It was like a reminder. Don't make the same mistake again. He shrugged, as if to shake off the remnants of the memory, and sat down on the large armchair, thinking.

The room was secure. Jarvis, whoever Jarvis was, was watching him constantly. Captain Rogers and the others were suspicious of him now, and there was no telling what they would do. It was entirely possible that they would try wiping him or beating him or brainwashing him at this point, since whatever they'd been doing before hadn't worked.

It had been clever, he had to admit. Confuse him, make him believe he was safe. He'd thought perhaps it was some kind of transfer at first, although all the anti-Hydra talk had put him on edge. He had ignored that for the most part, deciding that it was a test or a trick, something used to gauge his loyalty, anything but actual hatred. Because he'd wanted to stay. He had liked the food and the safety and the sleep.

But it was obvious now that it had all been a trick. That these people had been trying to brainwash him and make him angry at Hydra. And it had almost worked, he realized. He'd been going against programming and protocol to avoid having to leave.

He rubbed at his empty left shoulder, frustrated. They had taken his arm and his weapons without even trying, and he was stuck on the fiftieth floor of a high-security tower. It was a challenge, but currently he didn't want a challenge. He wanted to get back to Hydra like he was supposed to. It had already been too long.

As he sat there, thinking, he wondered if Pierce was still alive after all. The Captain had said that Pierce was dead, but at this point, anything he said was suspect. The Soldier huffed slightly, irritated with himself. He had let the situation go on for far longer than he should have.

Breaking out of the room by force wasn't a viable option, he decided. That left deception, which he could manage as well as anything else.

It seemed that Captain Rogers had trusted him, at least to a degree, while he was malfunctioning and confused. The others had been suspicious, but he had had relative freedom to move about the Tower and order his own days. Therefore, if he acted as though he had gone back to that state of confusion, maybe they would eventually let him out of the room. Of course, the problem still remained that he was being watched constantly, but he could deal with that once he was no longer locked up.

Adjusting his position on the chair, he decided to get some sleep before implementing his plan.

…

It was several hours before he woke up again with a slight crick in his neck and a bleary, half-alert feeling. He rolled his head around a few times, trying to alleviate the discomfort, then stood and went to the bathroom to take a cold shower. He had to be fully awake and aware; he had no idea what would happen to him next.

He didn't want to act weak again. He was a weapon, not a whimpering child. However, it was necessary to the mission, and thus couldn't be helped.

Obviously, a sudden relapse would be suspicious, so he tried to keep it gradual, allowing his expression and body language to go from neutral and suspicious to exhausted, frightened, and confused. He wasn't sure whether this difference would be noticed (or trusted) immediately, but he was programmed to be patient. He would manage. Perhaps if he faked a flashback, that might assist him with his ruse… but not yet.

He paced up and down a lot. Sat nervously on the edge of the bed. Watched the door as if any minute he expected someone to come and punish him. Forced his face to remain tired, weary, broken.

All the while he made plans, discarding them as fast as he drew them up, unsatisfied with all of them. No matter what ideas he got, Jarvis was the greatest obstacle. Presumably, Jarvis had access to every inch of security footage as well as the Tower's defense systems. Maybe if he could take out Jarvis… but if Jarvis was human, the Soldier hadn't seen him yet at all, and he apparently didn't need sleep. He swore inwardly as he came up against Jarvis' all-seeing eye again.

He needed backup. He needed his strike team.

He needed Rumlow.

He rubbed fractiously at his shoulder, trying to control his rising frustration. Although he knew he could get himself let out of the room if he was careful, what he would do after that was less certain.

It was nearing six o'clock (by his reckoning) when he finally heard the hiss of his bedroom door unlocking. He cringed away from it. He had to be afraid. He had to be submissive.

He had to be weak.

It was Natalia. She gave him pause (as she always did), but he ignored this, instead watching her with the nervous wariness of a small animal. The door slid shut behind her.

"Hey, Kiryanov," she said quietly.

"Hey," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry about all this." She gestured to the room, the door. Her posture was casual, but he could tell that she was anything but relaxed. They'd sent her in for a reason. "We can't let you out of here until you're more stable; it's not safe for anyone."

He almost scoffed. Stable. He was more operational now than he'd been in months. He simply nodded, however, keeping his expression deferent.

"We're not going to hurt you, though, and we're going to bring you meals. Tony's working on your arm, but you won't be getting that back for a while yet." She walked away from him, and he almost attacked her; her back was unprotected. However, he knew that she was fully aware of him anyway, and even if he did take her out, he would have gained only a minimal advantage.

She was going over his room, testing the furnishings. She stopped at the closet where his few clothes were kept neatly folded and reached up for the curtain rod. She tugged on it a few times, frowned, and nodded. It was embedded in the wall, and as of yet the Soldier didn't think he could break it either. She took down the curtain and bundled it up.

She checked the bathroom next. Took a few items out. Painstakingly unscrewed the hardware from the cabinets. Rattled a few things around a bit. Finally she turned back to him and shrugged, hefting her small bundle of confiscated items. "Sorry about all this." Then she walked past him, the door slid open a crack, and she left.

The Asset settled back on the bed, trying to convey relief with his expression and posture. He felt vaguely as though he had wasted an opportunity, although he knew full well that he had made the right decision to wait.

Only fifteen minutes later, Natalia was back, this time with food. It was a sandwich and some chips on a paper plate. Plastic Solo cup. No utensils, nothing even remotely good for use as a weapon. She set the things down by the door and went back out.

He retrieved the food.

Sat on the armchair.

Ate.

Planned.

Unfortunately, he still couldn't escape the fact that he couldn't do this by himself.

He needed backup.

He needed Hydra.

But how could he contact them? He certainly didn't have access to communication devices, and if he did, Hydra wasn't that easy to find. Maybe his arm had some kind of commuications relay or at least some hint of how to begin to talk to them.

Either way, he had seen that the technician's lab was full of information. Would he be able to access any of it? Probably not. But he had to try.

_"Don't touch me!" Bucky crouched in his cell, shaking from the cold. Zola stared at him impassively, while the two soldiers he'd brought with him gripped his arm and shoulder and hauled him to his feet. "You creepy bastard, if you touch me I'll kill you!" The weakness in his limbs belied his shouts, however._

_Zola just smiled, amused, and turned, leading the way to God-knew-where. "You hear me, Zola?" Bucky screamed. "I'm gonna kill you!" He bit back a groan as one of the soldiers dug his fingers into Bucky's mutilated left shoulder._

The Soldier was allowed only a brief moment of respite after the sudden flashback before the next one hit him.

_"Bucky!"_

_"Sergeant James Barnes, 12-557-038."_

_He couldn't feel his extremities. The table was hard, unyielding under his back. Vaguely he became aware of someone working around his wrists and ankles, fingers tugging on the straps. A moment later there was a hot, prickling pain in his hands and feet and he groaned. He was free, which was why it hurt... but who knew what they're doing to him now?_

_"Bucky, Bucky, it's me. Steve."_

_Bucky blinked, straining to make his eyes open and focus because that was definitely Steve's voice, although a bit deeper and rougher. Strong hands clutched his shoulders and helped him off the table. What was Steve doing here? And Bucky could finally open his eyes._

_It was Steve, but taller and more muscular than Bucky had ever seen him. Bucky held tightly to him, trying not to fall. Was this a hallucination? He'd had many of them, but this was solid and real and his feet and hands hurt._

_"Steve," he managed. "I thought you were smaller."_

_"I joined the army," Steve told him with a familiar smile._

_As they left the tiny room with the table, Bucky thought that he could feel Zola watching him. But when he looked back, there was no one._

Bucky tasted blood and bile in his mouth, foul and coppery. Disgusted, he spat out a mouthful of the stuff and straightened on the armchair. His leftover food had been scattered everywhere. He ran a hand over his face with a groan, closing his eyes tight and shaking his head.

Who the hell was Captain Rogers?

His memories of the man made no sense. They didn't fit. He felt a kind of... affection for him in some of them that felt strange. Like... like... allies. Maybe.

His most recent recollections of Hydra didn't fit either. They were largely coloured with hatred. Not the strange hatred he had for them at other times, the hatred that went hand in hand with longing, but a deep and satisfying anger that he didn't remember.

He struggled to ignore the flashbacks, realizing that they were not only distracting, they were what made him weak. If he couldn't control the memories, he might fail his mission.

And he couldn't do that.

So he pushed back the unsettling hatred and the even more unsettling affection and set to work cleaning up after himself, remembering to act as shaken and confused as possible.

The flashbacks had helped him with his plan, at least, even if they were confusing and dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have done some significant editing and updating on many of the earlier chapters of this story; most greatly changed was chapter 9. I edited Natasha's description of her history with Bucky to make it pretty different, hopefully a bit more emotional. The other changes are simply word choices, grammar, small story changes. Nothing too major.
> 
> I should remind y'all that this is not a Stucky story, so the affection referenced in this chapter is brotherly, not romantic.
> 
> This chapter is, like the previous one, unbetaed. All mistakes are my own. Constructive criticism welcome.


	14. Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "'You do care,' said Dumbledore. ... 'You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.'" - J.K. Rowling

The rest of that evening and the whole of the next day passed without incident. Natalia brought the Soldier his meals. He ate, he showered, he acted weak. It was a long day, but he had had longer.

It was on the third day of his confinement that his plan appeared to be taking effect. It was midafternoon, approximately halfway between his lunch and dinner. He was pacing, as he often did, when the door hissed. He froze, stepped back. Waited for the door to open.

Captain Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natalia walked in. His designated handlers here, he noted. He eyed them all warily, letting them make the first move.

"Hey Buck," the Captain finally said. He sounded... exhausted. Good.

"Hey."

"We're here to ask you some questions, okay?" Natalia added.

He stiffened. That was never good. "Yes ma'am."

"What are you feeling?"

She was watching him closely, probably getting as much from him by his expressions than he could even tell her. But he remembered teaching her.

She had learned many of her tricks from him.

He acted hesitant. He knew they expected him to search for a safe answer. "...Tired?" he stammered.

Glancing between the others in the room, he was quick to realize that, out of all of them, Captain Rogers was the most uncomfortable. Thinking back, the Captain had always been the one whose emotions were the most unstable. Interesting.

"That's not what I meant, Kiryanov." Natalia's eyes were hard.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to hurt the scientist. I made a mistake, I misunderstood."

The Captain was obviously ready to believe him, but both Wilson and Natalia looked uncertain. Suspicious.

"You had a flashback," Wilson said, more gentle than Natalia had been. "What was that about?"

"Two," the Asset corrected, careful. "One about… about…" He hesitated. (This acting was exhausting.) "About him," he gestured at Captain Rogers "And I was on a table. He, um, he untied me and I said he was taller and he said he joined the army."

Rogers looked like the Asset had just punched him. Again, interesting.

He went on. "And one about Hydra. I think it was after I fell." He reluctantly recalled the memory. "Zola was there. I didn't have my arm." His hand instinctively went to his empty left shoulder, massaging, feeling the texture of his scars. "I was angry with him and screaming at him. He took me somewhere." He shrugged, looked down, but not before noticing the tightening of the Captain's jaw.

It was hard to contain a smug smile.

He'd been too confused to realize it before, but it was evident now: the Captain was weak. Certainly not physically, and perhaps not regarding other matters, but he was clearly too attached to the Soldier (for reasons that he didn't fully understand and didn't need to).

Rogers finally said something. "Okay, so you remembered me saving you from Hydra before you fell off the train."

Context. Context was good.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Natasha-" Rogers started to say, but then stopped.

The Soldier glanced up. Natalia and the Captain appeared to be having a silent conversation, one that he couldn't follow. He shifted in place and shoved his hair out of his face, frustrated, waiting.

After a moment, Natalia took over the discussion again. "Look, Kiryanov. We want to believe you, it's just… You went kind of crazy back there. Bruce nearly Hulked out on us because you punched him, and you almost jumped out a window. We have to make sure everyone's safe."

"I know," he mumbled, staring at his knees.

"Excuse me," said Jarvis' voice, startling him. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's been an urgent call from SHIELD. You're wanted in the conference room immediately."

SHIELD? There still was a SHIELD? And he was stuck in this room while vital information might be only a few floors away.

Wilson, Natalia, and Captain Rogers started to leave. The Asset spoke up, quiet, sheepish. "Can I leave yet? I know I was wrong; please don't make me stay here forever."

As he'd expected, Rogers looked torn, but Natalia answered. "You won't stay here forever, Kiryanov." She gave him an apologetic smile. "Just until we're sure it's safe to let you out."

He nodded.

They walked out.

The door slid shut behind them.

He had the resist the urge to try to get out, knowing full well that he couldn't go unnoticed here but also knowing that whatever was happening now was important and could badly affect his plans.

He spent the next few hours doing pushups, sit-ups, pullups, and any other exercise he could while he waited. He also tried to sort through some of his more confusing memories and make sense of them, but he quickly realized that there were too many, and he wasn't even sure which ones were real, where they belonged in his life, what they meant, whether he'd actually experienced something or if it was just a dream. Irritated, he shoved all of them out of the way in his mind and went back to the only reliable mental pastime he had: planning.

Now that he'd realized the extent of the Captain's weakness, he could use that. Although he realized that Rogers probably wasn't stupid and understood what he was risking by housing the Soldier, it was evident that he could be easily manipulated if the Asset was careful.

* * *

Steve felt drained. At this point, he didn't know what to think, and his emotions were more mixed up than a bowl of his ma's stew. He could tell that Natasha was watching him (she had been doing so more and more frequently over the past week), but the knowledge wasn't enough to make him straighten his spine or walk more quickly. He was, quite simply, weary. He had no more energy to deal with this situation, no more energy to make good decisions, no more energy even to get angry. He was tired of waking up every day after excruciating nightmares to confront a problem that he couldn't fix.

Nat drifted closer to him as they walked and, almost cautiously, took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. He glanced at her, tried desperately to muster up a brave smile, and found that he couldn't.

She didn't seem surprised by his response at all. They stopped in the middle of the hall; Sam took a look at their faces, gave an understanding sigh, and clapped Steve on the shoulder before continuing on. Evidently he was not surprised either.

"You okay?" Nat asked.

Obviously he was not, but he wasn't going to say that. Instead, he shrugged.

She sighed, almost exasperated except that she also looked worried. "Steve, you can't keep doing this to yourself."

He snorted, trying to act braver than he felt. "Yeah I can," he said, half-joking.

For once, he hoped she would see through his act, and naturally, she did.

"Steve…" She shook her head and glanced in the direction Sam had gone as if she wished he'd come back and help her.

"Nat," he retorted. Keeping up appearances, still.

"This isn't good for anyone. Not you, not Bucky, not the rest of the team." She crossed her arms, and Steve felt, for a moment, as he always had on the rare occasions when his ma lectured him. "You're going to make yourself sick. Literally."

He shook his head, looking down. "I need to be here for Bucky. He needs me."

"No, he needs a psychiatrist and several relaxing years in Hawaii," Natasha said shortly. "And you need to get some sleep and take a break for a few days. You're killing yourself here, Steve."

Oh, he knew full well that she was right. But he couldn't just go hang out and do nothing while Bucky was like this.

_Bucky might be like this forever._

He shook his head again and shifted his stance. "I _can't_ ," he insisted. He wanted to. He wanted to sleep and try to forget about all this. But doing so would have felt like not caring, felt like giving up.

Nat met his eyes searchingly, head slightly tilted to one side like she was trying to figure him out. Finally she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I guess I understand. But you have to promise me you'll at least take a step back. This isn't healthy."

Steve felt a rush of relief, although exactly why he couldn't have said. "Alright," he said. "I promise." He hesitated, then started to move forward again, but Natasha grabbed his arm and tugged him to a stop.

"Hey," she said, and she looked uncharacteristically unsure of herself. "He'll be fine. We all will. It's okay." Although he knew that she was just saying that to make him feel better, he gave her a smile and a grateful nod. She let go of his arm and they resumed walking.

The conference room was not, in reality, the only conference room the Tower had, or even the only conference room close by. It was simply given the honorable title of "the" conference room because it was massive, secure, and contained the best communications system in the Tower. Even JARVIS didn't give it another name, largely due to Tony's insistence that it was too cool for a name.

The glass door, emblazoned with the Avengers logo, slid open as they came up to it. Beyond it, Sam, Tony, Maria Hill, Clint, and Bruce stood around the long table. Steve took a deep breath as he walked in, meeting both Nat and Sam's eyes to gain a bit of extra strength.

"What's up?"

"I'll explain once Rhodey gets here," Maria said calmly. Apparently she was in charge of proceedings, something that Tony did not look happy about.

Steve walked over to the table and pulled out a chair to sit down with a heavy sigh; the others followed his lead, all but Maria, who said hello to Rhodey as he walked in.

"Hey, guys," he said, nodding. Steve dipped his head in acknowledgment with a small smile.

"So what's going on here?" Tony finally said, leaning back in his seat and swiveling impatiently from side to side.

Maria, rather than answering, said, "JARVIS, pull up the call."

A Skype call was projected onto the wall screen behind her, and it took Steve a moment to register whose face it was staring back at them with a faint, smug smile on his face.

"Coulson?!" Natasha stammered, for once caught off guard.

Steve stared, stunned. Tony swore quietly. Bruce took off his glasses as if he thought maybe they were affecting his vision. Only Clint didn't react, and as a matter of fact looked rather proud.

"Hey guys," Coulson said, his smile widening just slightly. "Captain, you owe me an autograph."

Steve snorted, a grin spreading across his face.

"You knew about this?" Nat protested, aiming her gaze at Clint and Maria, in turn. "You knew and you didn't say anything?"

Clint shrugged sheepishly. "I promised not to. He showed up at therapy one day to see how I was."

"God." Natasha looked angry and confused and excited, all at once. Steve reached out, feeling a bit awkward, and touched her hand. She glanced at him and smiled a little as if to say she was fine.

"What's this about?" Tony asked, focusing, for once, quicker than the rest of them. Steve couldn't stop picturing the blood-covered trading cards that Coulson had been so proud of.

Finally some good news.

"It's come to our attention that you have more than one famous super soldier at your Tower, Tony," Coulson answered. His smug smile faded, although he still looked vaguely proud of himself for surprising the Avengers so much.

"Um, yeah, that'd be Sam," Tony said casually. "Because he's awesome and has wings and-"

Steve blinked. He hadn't expected Tony to ever try to defend Bucky.

"I'm afraid not." The agent smiled and moved away from the camera to project several images on the screen with pictures and other proof that Bucky had ended up with Steve and at the Tower.

So maybe not such good news after all. Steve frowned. SHIELD, new or old, wasn't supposed to know about Bucky.

"Although I can understand your reticence with this information," Coulson said, as if anticipating their defensiveness, "as the new head of SHIELD-"

 _Head of SHIELD?_ Granted, Coulson was a good agent, but the awkward, somewhat childish man Steve had met didn't seem qualified to lead SHIELD.

"-I have a responsibility to know what's going on and make sure that people are safe. I'm not asking you to hand him over, but I would like to send an agent over to help supervise and keep me updated one what's going on. Don't worry; she's a personal friend and a good scientist. We've been dealing with Hydra assets for some time now and have been able to help a few of them, so we have some files that might help you as well."

Steve glanced at the others; most of them seemed as reluctant as him to let anyone else in on their project. "Who is this agent?" he asked carefully.

Coulson smiled. "Just a minute." He turned away from the screen and called, "Simmons!"

A moment later, a small, dark blond woman with a somewhat weary expression came running. She was wearing a neat white lab coat and goggles over what was probably a very pretty outfit, a small device of some kind in one hand. She grinned at them and gave a little wave.

"This is Agent Simmons," Coulson said with what could only be described as a fatherly smile. "She's a genius with biochemistry," Here Bruce raised an eyebrow, interested, "and there're very few people I trust more."

"Hello," she said, her eyes sparkling with evident excitement. Despite himself, Steve grinned. She seemed nice, anyway.

"I think she could be helpful to you," Coulson explained. "And… she's looking to get away from the rest of us for a while."

Steve noted that Simmons' expression went from enthusiastic to sad briefly, before she perked up again.

The Avengers looked around at each other. Bruce shrugged. "I don't mind," he said. "And we could use the extra information… we're a bit stuck."

Natasha and Clint both nodded. "Sounds fair," Clint said.

Steve hesitated. He'd been burned by trusting SHIELD before… but this was Coulson. Besides, his gut feeling was that Simmons was trustworthy, and they needed all the help they could get. He rapped his knuckles on the table thoughtfully, then finally he looked up. "Alright. We could make that work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've written another chapter! I haven't written this quickly since I began the story. *claps hands* I'm so cool.
> 
> Civil War news is all over Tumblr and I have a lot of feelings, especially Romanogers ones.
> 
> As to the Agents of SHIELD references: don't worry if you haven't seen it, I'm doing my best to explain it as I go along. All the same, that show is brilliant and you should totally check it out.
> 
> Thank you for the reviews! I have almost 70! *falls over happily* They're so encouraging for a person with such low self-esteem as I've got.


	15. Damaged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race — that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant." - Markus Zusak

Because of the decision to allow Agent Simmons to come stay at the Tower, Bucky was required to stay in his room for longer than they had intended. It had been evident to all of them that Simmons was no fighter, so her safety had to be top priority. Tony had a suite renovated for her (Coulson sent him a compilation of ideas from the rest of his personal team of agents for what to do in her room, as well as a few photos to hang up) while he and Bruce pretended to be annoyed that they'd have to deal with another person in their lab. Steve knew that they were actually very excited, however, because ever since having a peek at her file they'd been slowly making space in their main lab for her to work. On the whole, it was obvious that the prospect of Simmons' arrival was doing them all good.

She arrived on Tuesday. A SHIELD quinjet materialized on the Tower landing pad, and the team went out to meet it.

Coulson came out of the quinjet first, holding a carry-on bag in one hand and something small in the other. Simmons followed after him with a suitcase and a backpack, staring around at everything except, Steve noticed, them.

As Coulson came up to them, he carefully set down the carry-on and held out his hand for Steve to shake. "Captain Rogers."

"Director Coulson," he answered.

"This," Coulson held up a flashdrive "Is all the information we thought might be of use to you for helping Sergeant Barnes. It also contains some of Simmons' lab data because she's in the middle of several projects." He glanced back at the smaller agent, who had not quite reached them yet, then said quietly, "She's having a tough time of it. Her lab partner was badly hurt when Hydra came out of the shadows. Just so you know."

Steve nodded. "Okay."

Simmons finally caught up with Coulson, although she looked too intimidated to meet Steve's eyes. He smiled, amused, and held out his hand for her to shake. "Steve Rogers, ma'am."

She bit her lip and glanced up. "I'm Jemma Simmons. Nice to officially meet you, Captain Rogers."

He chuckled. "It's Steve."

She nodded, then glanced past him and immediately perked up. "Dr. Banner!" She hurried over, grinning. "It's such an honor to meet you! I'm a huge fan of your work, particularly your theories correlating the production of epsilon rays to degree of beta-contamination of a stable gamma stream."

Coulson laughed, watching her, and looked at Steve with a small smirk. "Everyone's got their heroes."

Steve snorted. "I suppose so."

Bruce seemed equally glad to meet Simmons, and they were already deeply engrossed in a scientific discussion while Tony stood nearby and interjected the occasional theory. Steve walked over and gestured to her suitcase. "I can take that if you want. We've got a suite ready for you, if you'd like to get set up."

"Okay." Simmons adjusted her backpack on her back, and Clint walked over to retrieve the agent's carry-on bag from Coulson.

"I have to get back to base," he said, nodding a thank-you to Clint. "That flashdrive tells you how to contact me in case of emergency."

"Thank you, Director Coulson," Steve said, and he meant it. This all could have gone much differently.

"Look, Captain Rogers…" Coulson said, his small smile getting bigger. "It's Phil. And I'll see you around." Then he turned and walked back into the quinjet.

The Avengers also turned and walked back into the Tower as the jet filtered out of sight and took off. Agent Simmons watched it go somewhat apprehensively. Natasha finally went over to the girl to say hello as they went back inside.

"Oh my gosh!" Simmons managed. "You're Natasha Romanoff!"

Nat smiled, and Steve felt happy for her. Only rarely did people show her the appreciation she deserved for her hard work. "It's nice to meet you, Simmons. I've heard a lot about you. Let's get you set up, why don't we?" She held out her hand, and Clint and Steve passed Simmons' bags over to her.

"Thank you," Simmons said, smiling and looking down. The two women went ahead of the men to take the elevator down to Simmons' new room.

"Well, this should be interesting," Sam said. "I thought she was cute. What do you guys think?"

Clint and Tony both shrugged noncommittally at the same time.

Steve laughed and shook his head. "She was sweet."

Bruce just rolled his eyes at them.

…

After dinner that evening, Tony, Natasha, and Bruce went down to the lab to go through the flashdrive of information while Steve, Clint, Rhodey, and Sam brought Simmons to the common area.

"What's going on?" she asked nervously. They were all seated on the couches, Steve next to her (trying to help her feel less out of place).

"Since you're here to help us with Bucky and keep Coulson updated," he explained. "We thought we should show you what's going on with him right now."

Simmons nodded.

"JARVIS, security footage please?"

The TV screen flickered to life, displaying a live video feed from Bucky's room. He was lying on his bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling, massaging his left shoulder (as he so often did now). His brow was furrowed in concentration, or perhaps frustration.

Simmons seemed pleased to have something to focus on, and took a long look at the screen. "Do you have his vital signs by any chance?" JARVIS pulled them up. The young woman tilted her head thoughtfully as she examined them, occasionally glancing from the statistics to look at Bucky again.

"His brain activity is very high," she said, pointing to a set of diagrams of the brain. "Particularly in the prefrontal cortex and the medial temporal lobe."

"Which means what exactly?" Rhodey said.

"Well," Simmons seemed much more comfortable now as she got up and walked over to the screen to point at parts of the diagram. "The prefrontal cortex is largely responsible for processing and retaining memories and using them to make decisions. The medial temporal lobe deals with declarative and episodic memory, which means it remembers events and situations and how they happened." She tapped the area. "It's the brain's primary center for processing and regulating memories. It also deals with procedural memories, which are involved with motor control, muscle memory. Like how you can tie your shoes almost without thinking, even if it's been a while. And actually… Can I have a better scan of his brain?"

JARVIS complied within minutes, and Simmons nodded. "It seems as if certain parts of his brain are damaged, but very specific areas. Like it was done on purpose." She looked questioningly at Steve.

He nodded. "They used electrocution to wipe his memories. Repeatedly."

"It was done almost" Simmons winced "surgically. The amygdala and hippocampus glands are damaged, as well as the medial temporal lobe and the temporal cortex. His brain seems to repair itself remarkably well, but still…" She shook her head. "This isn't like anything I've ever seen. Most of Hydra's assets have either wanted to work with them or have had someone they care about stolen or manipulated. This is something else altogether."

Steve frowned, looking past Simmons at the screen. Bucky hadn't moved, and looked even more frustrated than he had previously. "What does all that mean?"

"Basically…" Simmons sighed. "He probably has a hard time keeping track of and interpreting his memories, and as for long term memory… If it wasn't for the way his brain has apparently repaired itself, he'd have lost all ability to make and retain long-term memories some time ago. His ability to process social and emotional cues is likely impaired as well, although that part of his brain isn't as severely damaged as the rest. If Hydra had really wanted to stop him from remembering they should have just removed those parts of his brain, but I suppose the H.M. surgery wouldn't have happened until after they began brainwashing him." She glanced around at them all. "So he has no memories?"

"Well, he's been getting them back," Steve explained, still trying to process her explanation. "Flashbacks and stuff. He has a form of super soldier serum like I do, so I guess that's why his brain is fixing itself."

Simmons' eyes widened. "He has the serum, like you? That is fascinating, I-"

"Jarvis?"

They all glanced in some surprise at the screen; Simmons returned the couch and sat down by Steve.

Bucky had sat up and was looking at the ceiling as he addressed Jarvis. "Could I have a notebook and a pen?" he said. His eyes were dark with irritation and confusion. Steve frowned. "Ask him why."

JARVIS relayed the question to Bucky.

"Because…" He hesitated, and appeared to be trying to work out how to answer. "My memories…" He tapped his forehead. "There's too many, they're… confused." Steve narrowed his eyes. Something was off about the way Bucky was talking, although he couldn't quite work out what.

"So he wants to write out his memories," Sam said.

"A pen could be used as a weapon," Clint noted.

"I know." Steve ran a hand over his face. "But it's not like we wouldn't know he had it. And maybe it would be good for him, with what Simmons was saying, to try to organize his what he remembers."

Sam nodded slowly. "Okay, sounds good."

"Shall I tell him yes?" JARVIS asked.

"Yeah, go ahead. Tell him we'll get that to him sometime tomorrow."

Bucky nodded as JARVIS told him Steve's answer, then lay back down. His eyes quickly went blank; he was apparently thinking again.

"Thank you, Simmons," Steve said, turning to her with a smile. "I think Bruce and Tony could probably use your help in the lab, and you should probably tell them what you just told us."

"No problem," she answered. "How do I get there?"

"Take the elevator down to the forty-eighth floor," Steve said. "JARVIS will tell you from there."

"Alright."

As she walked away, Steve sank back against the couch cushions and ran his hands through his hair. "Wow."

"Exactly," Clint grunted. He appeared somewhat disconcerted. "So they just went in and turned off the parts of his brain that would get in their way?"

"I guess."

"That's sick," the archer said, shifting in his seat.

Steve realized what his teammate must be thinking about and frowned sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Clint."

"I'm fine," the younger man said shortly. "But I guess… Look, Cap, nothing against you or Bucky, but I thought he was a murderer. I was angry with him. I mean, everyone kept talking about brainwashing, but he was always talking about how great Hydra was and his missions like it was no big deal, and I…" Steve waited for Clint to collect his thoughts. "I guess I thought it was still sort of his fault. He didn't get magically mind-raped by an Asgardian with a spear, so…" He shrugged, a wry smile twisting his features. "I wasn't sure about all this before, but I promise I'll do my best to help, Steve."

Steve nodded, sincerely grateful. "Thanks, Clint," he said quietly.

The archer dipped his head in brief acknowledgement, then got up and strode out of the common area, clearly done talking for the night.

* * *

What the Soldier had told Jarvis was true. He was becoming so frustrated with the tangled mess of thoughts in his head that he'd decided he had to do something about it and had accordingly asked for the notebook and pen. It might not get him back to Hydra any sooner, but if he didn't do something with those memories, he would drown in them.

His flashbacks had increased in frequency over the past few days, to the point where he was having at least two every day. Most of them were memories of failed missions, brainwashing, or angry handlers. He'd started having nightmares again as well, sometimes about the flashbacks, sometimes about other memories, sometimes about things that seemed real as he slept but once he woke up he knew they weren't. He had stopped sleeping to avoid them, but he still spent most of his time dreading the next flashback and trying to maintain the cold-cut clarity of thought that he'd only just gotten back.

Get back to Hydra. The necessity still thrummed in his veins, the drive to get out of here as soon as he could.

But if he kept having flashbacks, how could he? He wouldn't last a day out on the street. He'd be fighting off memories while he tried to evade capture.

And the frightening thing was, he didn't think he'd be able to do that.

At least if he got out of the Tower he could probably contact Hydra. It was easy to draw attention to yourself if you wanted to. A few photographs on the internet or in the news, and he'd be picked up within hours. But he had to get out first.

And that was the problem.

He stripped out of his shirt and sat down in the armchair to rest. Rest, but not sleep. He propped his chin on his knees and stared across at the wall.

It was a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, SOOOO this chapter has a lot of Author's Notes because of the somewhat extensive research involved in this teeny little chapter. They'll come after the rest of the A/N.
> 
> Well, poor Bucky is still a mess. We got some proper Simmons time! If any of you watch AoS, please let me know how I did with her characterization so I know whether to change anything or keep writing her as I have.
> 
> Research Notes, for your viewing pleasure:
> 
> Hippocampus: gland that is essential for memory function; responsible for turning short-term memories into long-term ones
> 
> Amygdala: processes emotional reactions; social and sexual behaviour; regulates the sense of smell
> 
> Medial temporal lobe: stores, processes, controls, and interprets memory (contains the hippocampus and amygdala)
> 
> Temporal cortex: stores long-term memory
> 
> Declarative memories: memories of events, facts; "knowing what happened"
> 
> Procedural memories: memories that have become more ingrained; "knowing how"; muscle memory, deja-vu
> 
> The pen and notebook request came from this little quote from Sebastian Stan which BROKE MY HEART. "In his backpack there are a dozen notebooks that compose the scattered memories dating back to as far as he can remember which somewhat piece together a scattered life. In a similar way to Alzheimer's, he's written things down, for fear of losing his memory again. He was prepared, were something to happen, to walk away with nothing but that backpack, which is why it's the only thing he takes and knowing full well that not everything those pages contain is pretty."
> 
> The "H.M. surgery" Simmons mentioned: "Perhaps the most famous study ... is that of a patient known as "H.M.", who had parts of his medial temporal lobe, hippocampus and amygdala removed in 1953 in an attempt to cure his intractable epilepsy. After the surgery, H.M. could still form new procedural memories and short-term memories, but long-lasting declarative memories could no longer be formed. The nature of the exact brain surgery he underwent, and the types of amnesia he experienced, allowed a good understanding of how particular areas of the brain are linked to specific processes in memory formation. In particular, his ability to recall memories from well before his surgery, but his inability to create new long-term memories, suggests that encoding and retrieval of long-term memory information is mediated by distinct systems within the medial temporal lobe, particularly the hippocampus. The fact that he was able to learn hand-eye coordination skills such as mirror drawing, despite having absolutely no memory of having learned or practised the task before, also suggested the existence different types of long-term memory, which are now known as declarative and procedural memories." (found at a website called The Human Memory under Long-Term Memory)


	16. Rumlow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There are so many ways to be brave in this world. Sometimes bravery involves laying down your life for something bigger than yourself, or for someone else. Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known, or everyone you have ever loved, for the sake of something greater.
> 
> But sometimes it doesn't.
> 
> Sometimes it is nothing more than gritting your teeth through pain, and the work of every day, the slow walk toward a better life.
> 
> That is the sort of bravery I must have now." - Veronica Roth

Rumlow peered up at Avengers Tower from the front seat of a black car, assessing the situation. Renovations to the building had begun a few days ago, with a few of his new recruits on the construction crew. With Hydra in disarray (and the leaders fighting like rabid wolves for prominence), Rumlow had built a small following of the remnants of the Strike Team and fair-sized group of newcomers. Currently his goal was to rebuild the Winter Soldier program, partly so that whoever came out as Hydra's new head would consider him valuable rather than a threat, partly because he had great faith in the program and its usefulness to Hydra.

He rubbed a hand over the marbled scarring on his face and neck as he thought.

It hadn't been too hard to work out that Barnes was with the Avengers. Captain Rogers' very sudden move from Wilson's house to the Tower, combined with the suspicious absence of every single Avenger from the public eye, had been telling enough on its own. But once costruction started and Rumlow's people saw (they were sure) a quinjet on the Tower landing pad, his suspicions were confirmed.

The Soldier was with the Avengers.

As if this wouldn't be hard enough already, he had to work out a way to get his top asset (and Captain Rogers' former friend) out of a high-security tower without the help of Hydra's larger pool of resources.

Infiltrating the construction crew, however, had been the right place to start. It had been hard, because of course Stark ran exhaustingly extensive background checks on all of them, but the recruits he'd sent in had clean pasts and no ties to Hydra up until now.

It would be hard (but not impossible) to sneak a device past Tower security, so eventually Rumlow thought he could. Perhaps not a bomb, but at least something to knock out security cameras or hack into the network.

Barnes might not be able to break himself out, but Rumlow could break in.

And when they got the Asset back, they would make sure that nothing like this ever happened again.

* * *

_"Care to explain what happened back there, Soldier?" Rumlow's voice was deadly calm. Low and threatening. "You just screwed up the mission, big time. You let me down."_

_"I'm sorry," the Asset murmured, staring listlessly at the asphalt. "But I... He looked... And today feels..." He grimaced and shook his head._

_"Soldier, that's not acceptable," Rumlow said, his voice still dangerous but also ringing with disappointment. The Soldier cringed. He'd failed Rumlow and Hydra. He had thought, for a minute, that the man looked familiar. Something that had been bothering him all day just grew stronger, and he'd hesitated with his kill shot. The target had gotten away. "I'm sorry," he said again, helplessly._

_"Not good enough," Rumlow said. "Get in the van."_

_The Asset forced back a frightened shudder and did as he was told, schooling his face into an impassive mask. Rumlow was disappointed in him. Rumlow was angry._

_That meant punishment and possibly a discussion with Pierce. Certainly he deserved both. But he allowed himself to wonder, briefly, why he hadn't been able to shoot the scrawny, blond politician like he was supposed to. He shook off the question easily after a moment and closed his eyes, letting his mind go blank as he prepared himself for what would happen when they arrived back at the base. The target was of no consequence; the Soldier would undoubtedly be returning to kill him within the next few days._

The Soldier winced and sat up from where he had been curled up on the bed. He had begun to spend most of his time either seated or lying on the bed, scribbling in his notebook, waiting for the next flashback. Now he stretched and grabbed the journal, flipping to an empty page and writing down exactly what had happened in the flashback, including small details and emotions to try to make sense of it. Turning back several pages, he found a description of Captain Rogers from before the serum: small, blond, skinny, weak. Perhaps that had had something to do with why he couldn't shoot the politician in his flashback.

He scowled at the paper. From what he had been noting down, it was evident that not only was he the Captain's blind spot, the Captain may once have been his. This complicated the Soldier's current assessment of matters, and in fact made it unlikely. If he had once cared about the Captain's safety (enough to defy orders and be glad to go with him out of Hydra), then his belief that Rogers had simply tried to brainwash him a few times no longer made sense, particularly when combined with the memory of the two of them picking berries as children, a memory that he'd been ignoring for some time now.

There were a lot of memories like that, actually: ones that he'd compartmentalized and ignored because they made no sense. He was reluctant to think about them, even though he knew if he didn't, they might affect his decision-making badly in the future.

So he wrote them down.

Saving Captain Rogers _(against programming)_ when he fell from the helicarrier. Everything he could recall from the Smithsonian exhibit. _(Sergeant Barnes, a childhood friend of Captain Rogers, was the only Howling Commando ever to die in combat.)_ His scattered recollections of Natalia. The memories of Hydra that were full of hate _(him sniping off Hydra soldiers under the command of the Captain)_ , and the ones that weren't. Some of his Hydra memories disconcerted him; they looked like brainwashing, but… He dismissed that idea because he _had_ to.

So he scrawled out everything he knew and thought he knew in the notebook, and he drew pictures and traced vague lines and tried to order his memories. But the process didn't bring him the clarity he'd been hoping for. Instead there was simply an incomplete puzzle, a case he didn't know how to solve, only a few tiny pieces of a life that he'd once had. And he wanted to know what he was missing. He wanted it so bad it made his head hurt. But he couldn't want it, he couldn't do this, whatever this was. So he kept writing. Kept organizing. Kept trying to avoid thinking about _why_ and _who_ and _what for_.

He was angry with himself now, primarily. Angry at the emotions and the questioning and everything he knew he shouldn't be doing. Multiple times he threw the notebook away from him in anger, determined to stop trying to write everything down, only to walk over and pick it up after whatever flashback he had next.

He wouldn't acknowledge it to himself, but he was falling apart. Again.

Get back to Hydra.

_Stay and figure this all out._

Get out.

_Stay._

He knew that he was probably not recommending himself for release (with the way he was pacing and having flashbacks and shaking and generally unstable, he wouldn't have let himself out either) but at this point he was a bit too occupied internally to care about his original plan to trick his way out. A fact which he regretted whenever he was clearheaded enough.

Natalia still brought his meals every day. Sometimes Rogers was with her, and the both of them would eye him with obvious concern and wariness before the door slid shut behind them again. Occasionally they'd mention the progress on his arm – "SHIELD gave us some intel on other Hydra assets and now Tony has a better idea of how to make your arm work" – or ask him if he needed a new pen or more clothes.

Most days, however, passed in exhausting silence, with nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him. And that was bad, that was dangerous. Because his thoughts were anything but reassuring.

Two and a half weeks after he was first locked in his room, something different finally happened. The door slid open, and in came not Natalia with food, but the scientist he'd punched, a small blond woman, and with them Rogers and Stark (who was wearing the same full-body armor he'd used to get the Soldier here in the first place). Slowly, the Asset stood up from where he'd been seated on the floor, closing his notebook and clutching the pen in his fist. Whether he'd do anything with it he wasn't sure, but it was better than being unarmed.

"Hey, Bucky," Rogers said, moving forward in front of the blond woman protectively. "Why don't you put that down, alright?"

The Soldier hesitated, then tossed it down on top of his journal.

"We have to do a little medical check, okay?" the Captain, his voice quiet and calm. "You've been a bit… off, lately, and plus we're trying to work out a way to help you with the brain damage you've sustained. This is Agent Simmons, from SHIELD."

 _Brain damage?_ The Asset nodded, glancing around at each of them.

"One other thing, Buck. Bruce over there," Rogers gestured to the scientist "is very dangerous when he's angry, understand? He doesn't look it, I know, but I really suggest you don't try to hurt him."

That made no sense, but the Soldier nodded his compliance anyway.

Simmons and the scientist had him sit down on the bed, then began measuring his shoulder, asking him questions about how certain things felt. Did it hurt when he tried to remember things? Was it hard to remember details? Could he think back to his missions from a few months ago? What happened when he tried? Did he ever get headaches out of nowhere? He tried to answer their questions as neutrally as possible, slightly frustrated.

It did not escape him that Simmons was very nervous.

_That wasn't good. She shouldn't be nervous._

Nor did it escape him that both scientists were being quiet and gentle, and that no one looked angry with him. Considering how he'd been acting lately, that didn't make sense.

He fisted his hand against the side of his leg and stared past Rogers and Stark at the door.

"Is it okay if I have a look at your notebook?" the Captain asked.

The Soldier felt a brief moment of aversion, a sense that no one but him had a right to what was in that book. But then he realized it would look suspicious if he said no, so he shrugged. "Yeah."

Rogers walked over and picked it up, carefully opening it to the first page, holding the book gingerly as if he was half afraid it might explode. The Asset watched him carefully. Within moments he looked both angry and sad, and went to sit down, still holding the notebook like a broken thing.

_Almost as if he cared._

There was that weakness again. The Soldier knew what Rogers must be reading now, and wondered what he would make of it all.

He found himself unable to stop watching the Captain, although Simmons and the scientist were still trying to ask him questions. He half hoped that doing so would gain him some answers about who the Captain was and why he kept showing up in his memories, but he told himself he just wanted to see what the reaction was and try to use it to his advantage.

Finally Captain Rogers closed the journal with a soft thud and stood up, walking over to set it back down where it'd been before. His blue eyes were thoughtful.

"What's up, Steve?" Stark asked quietly.

"I don't know, Tony. I don't know what to do," Rogers answered, sighing. "But I don't think keeping him cooped up in here is helping anything."

"We'll talk about it, I guess," Stark said, clearly uncertain.

Simmons glanced up. "I think Captain Rogers… Steve is right. I mean…" She glanced at the Soldier, hesitant, and stopped. She had a British accent. Sheffield, the Soldier thought. "Never mind."

The Asset shifted in place and looked around at all of them, somewhat surprised but pleased. Despite his recent erratic behavior, they might let him out. They weren't as smart as he'd thought.

_They were kind._

He glanced down, in case some measure of smugness worked its way past his neutral mask, and pressed his fist harder against his leg, waiting.

"Jarvis, can you ask the others what they think, please?" Rogers asked.

"Of course, Captain Rogers. Just a moment."

It definitely took more than a moment for Jarvis to give the answer. "The general consensus is that yes, you ought to let Sergeant Barnes out of his room. I'm sending another message to your phone with specifics."

"Thanks, Jarvis." Rogers pulled out his phone and his eyes flicked across the screen. "Alright, Bucky. I guess you get to leave today. Just a couple extra rules for now, okay?"

The Soldier nodded.

"You can't go above the fifty-first floor or below the fiftieth. You aren't allowed to be alone with Simmons or Dr. Banner. And you can't be alone in the kitchen." Rogers shrugged. "That's all, I guess. We just can't trust you completely for now, which I'm guessing you understand."

"Yes sir," the Soldier answered.

The room door slid open, and Dr. Banner and Simmons left first. Then Stark stood out of the way while Rogers and the Asset finally, blessedly, walked through the doorway.

He was out.

He was free again, more or less.

This should have given him a sense of relief, but all he felt was heavy frustration and dread. Because the fact remained, digging at the back of his mind, disconcerting and _wrong_ , that sooner or later he would have to make a choice.

And now it was looking a good deal sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as with every single chapter I write that contains a significant shift in Bucky's thinking, I'm super insecure about this chapter, wondering if I'm rushing everything, etc. Some extra love in the reviews would be much appreciated, darlings.
> 
> As a side note, the day when Steve and the others go in the suite is a Sunday. I'm making that note mostly for my own sake so I can keep track of the timeline a bit better.
> 
> I gotta tell you, my dears, I have been depressed lately. This story has been helping; channeling my own loneliness and tiredness and sadness into writing Bucky and Steve really helps.
> 
> Please review!


	17. Why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "'Do you mean you won't kill anyone?' I ask.  
> 'No. When the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to... to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games,' says Peeta.  
> 'But you're not,' I say. 'None of us are. That's how the Games work.'  
> 'Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me,' he insists. 'Don't you see?'" - Suzanne Collins

Natasha stretched slowly, carefully, reaching down for her toes. She didn't particularly like yoga, but she did it twice a week to give her mind a break and keep herself flexible.

JARVIS interrupted her as she placed her palms flat on the floor. "Agent Romanoff, Captain Rogers and Agent Simmons are of the opinion that it is doing more harm than good to leave Sergeant Barnes in his suite. They would like your input."

Nat smiled a bit and raised her eyebrows. "What do you think, JARVIS?"

"Personally I agree with them, Agent Romanoff, although I do not know if it would be safe yet."

"Well, if we limit his access to certain floors and areas it should be fine."

Nat gradually straightened up again and shook her hair out of her face. No one could tell, but having Bucky here was taking a toll on her as well. Her memories of him were mixed up and distressing.

She and Kiryanov - to her, he was two different people - had been something to each other. What, she didn't know, but she regretted it. Seeing him every day with no recollection of what they'd been through, however, hurt like hell. It was too personal. She thought she understood how Steve was feeling, to an extent. Hydra had taken away the shared experience that made the two men friends, made herself and Kiryanov so close. And all that was left were scattered, half-formed memories of them which, somewhat counterintuitively, made things worse. It would be easier if he gave her blank looks and didn't care who she was, but he called her Natalia and stared at her like she was a troubling problem he had to solve and... She realized how hard it must be for Steve, who knew Bucky better than she ever could, who had to listen to Bucky constantly trying to work out who he was.

She rolled up her yoga mat and stashed it in her closet before changing out of her exercise clothes into a pair of jeans. Then she strapped one of her knives to the calf of her right leg and padded, barefoot, out of the room.

Everyone except Tony, Jemma, and Bruce was milling about awkwardly in the common room, evidently unsure how to treat Bucky in this situation. The Soldier himself was seated on one of the couches, focusing on the coffee table, his gaze steady but tired.

"Hey Nat," Steve said. He too was sitting on a couch, his hands folded in his lap. He was clearly uncomfortable. Nat could feel the tension in the room like a prickling between her shoulder blades or a chilly breeze. She shivered slightly and sat down next to the Captain.

"Hey."

He smiled a little sheepishly, his eyes flicking around the group of nervous people. This was a bad idea, he seemed to be thinking. Natasha rolled her eyes at him. Trust Steve Rogers to worry about the validity of a plan after he'd already implemented it.

"You guys got anything better to do?" Natasha asked coolly.

Sam gave her an irritated look; he clearly knew why she was trying to kick them out and he wasn't happy about it. Clint just flipped her two fingers and strode out. Rhodey followed shortly after him.

Sam, however, refused to leave, taking a seat instead. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you two had a thing going," he snorted. "You're always trying to get rid of me."

Naturally, Steve immediately grew flustered and started making excuses. Natasha just rolled her eyes again and relaxed in her seat.

She noted, as she did, that Bucky was watching them all with a strange expression on his face. Bewilderment, irritation, and something else darkened his grey-blue eyes.

"Barnes, I gotta talk to you for a bit," Sam said firmly. "I counsel people with PTSD a lot. Flashbacks, like you've got. So maybe I can help."

Bucky's voice was relieved, but cautious, as he answered, "How?"

"How about we talk about your flashbacks a bit. Is that okay?"

Bucky shifted in his seat, clearly unhappy with that idea. His expression went blank as he thought. Finally he shrugged. "Yeah."

"How often do you have flashbacks?" Sam asked.

"Twice a day. Usually more." Bucky answered, his voice cool and clinical.

Natasha eyed him cautiously. It was obvious that something was still different than it had been before the whole "are you enemies of Hydra" conversation. Not that they had really expected him to just go back to normal (or as normal as he'd become) after all that.

Sam sighed, his expression sympathetic and gave Steve a knowing look. Nat knew they were both probably imagining what that would be like. "Okay, what's the most recent one you had?"

Bucky shifted in his seat again and began describing the flashback. When he finished, Sam was silent for a moment, thinking.

"Why is that upsetting to you?" he asked, finally.

Although the expression on Bucky's face didn't noticeably change, Nat could tell he was thinking, and thinking hard, about what he should say. "It was confusing," he said shortly.

Sam glanced at her, and she shook her head just slightly. Bucky was giving the answer they expected, and therefore not being very honest with them.

"Anything else?" Sam pressed, his tone gentle and calm.

The Soldier's face tightened in a frustrated frown. "It's..." He stopped, thought again. His face relaxed from irritated to troubled, and his posture slumped. Natasha wasn't reassured. "It was... It made me afraid."

Again Sam looked at Nat, and again she shook her head. He moved on anyway. "It sounds like this Rumlow guy was pretty awful."

Bucky frowned. "He wasn't," he said defensively. "He did what he had to."

"Why did he have to punish you?"

"He... I failed the mission. I messed up." He shrugged. "It was my fault."

Natasha tried not to react to that, although it made her heart break a little. "It wasn't your fault, Kiryanov."

"It was." He nodded decisively. "I had a mission and I didn't complete it."

"Was it an important mission?"

Bucky shrugged. "Hydra gave it to me. It was my job to do it. I didn't." Apparently it didn't matter much what kind of mission it was.

"Why is it so important to do what they tell you?" Sam asked.

Steve stayed silent, which Natasha was grateful for; Steve had a difficult time being objective with Bucky and that made him vulnerable to manipulation. Still, she felt sorry – he looked as if he was mostly being quiet because he was too upset to say anything.

Bucky blinked; it appeared that he'd never thought of that question before. "Because they're Hydra…" he said slowly, looking bewildered. "I'm theirs. I do what they say. They're trying to give the world freedom and order."

"They aren't, though, Bucky. They just want to rule everyone."

"They deserve to," the Soldier said, shrugging, eyes frustrated and defiant. "It doesn't matter."

"Why do they deserve to? They're really cruel and destructive; that's not normally the sort of people we want to be in charge." Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.

Bucky scowled, shifting in place, eyes darting side to side. "They're Hydra," he growled. "It doesn't matter."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" she asked.

He glared at her and went silent. He didn't want her to keep pushing, which meant they had to.

"They brainwashed you into thinking those things, Kiryanov."

Bucky looked as if he had just run face first into a brick wall. He blinked. Shook his head. "No!" He shuddered slightly. "They didn't." He stared at his feet, his expression desperate. "That's not... I'm not... They _wouldn't._ " His right hand curled into a fist.

Steve straightened in his seat, tense, clearly expecting some kind of outburst. Nat would be lying if she said she wasn't worried about the same thing.

Instead of lashing out, however, Bucky just shook his head again. "They didn't brainwash me."

"Haven't you ever wondered?" Steve asked quietly. His quiet sincerity made Bucky look up at him, frustrated but still listening. "They never really explained, did they? Why it was so important that you listen to them, why you had to do everything you did?"

"It didn't matter. I don't need explanations. I do as I'm told."

"Of course it mattered, Bucky," Steve sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his face. Natasha wasn't sure whether to stop him or let him keep talking. Bucky seemed to be listening to him more than the rest of them, anyway. "You aren't a robot. You have rights and feelings and thoughts like everyone else. Hydra tried to take that away."

Bucky shook his head. "No. No, that's not right. It's not." He got up, hesitated, then turned and strode hastily out of the room.

Natasha let herself sink back on the couch, and Steve put his arm around her. She never would have admitted it (she did, after all, have a reputation to maintain), but it was comforting.

"I hate them." Steve's voice was so low and full of fury that she glanced at him, almost trying to make sure he was still the same person she knew. His blue eyes were ice-hard. She leaned closer to him, as if that would help at all. Maybe it did, because he let out a long sigh and his angry expression eased.

"It's screwed up alright," Sam said. "I think maybe he believes us, at least a little. It's just not the kind of thing he can accept easily. Because then he has to realize that he's been being abused for seventy years."

"Yeah. Look, boys, I think I'm going to go talk to him," Natasha said, getting up from the couch and tightening her ponytail.

Steve seemed about to object, but he ended up saying nothing as she walked out of the room. "JARVIS, where'd he go?" she asked.

"Back to his suite, Agent Romanoff. I think he's considerably more upset than he seems."

"Thanks."

Natasha wasn't sure what she planned on saying to him. Should she apologize? Question him? Tell him he would be okay? She didn't know, but she had to say something. Anything.

JARVIS let her into Bucky's suite without comment. The Soldier was sitting on the bed and scribbling furiously in his notebook, his mouth set in a grim line. She knew he'd noticed her by the way his shoulders straightened.

"Hey, Kiryanov," she said quietly, walking over and sitting next to him.

He shied away from her, kept writing. She glanced at the page, saw a list of questions.

_"Why is Hydra right?"_

_"Why am I Hydra?"_

_"Why would they brainwash me?"_ That question was violently crossed out.

_"Why does it matter?"_

Bucky's hand came down over the page, blocking her view. "Who are you even?" he asked bitterly. "What right do you have? I barely know you, I… you're just… Who are all of you to tell me what to think? You keep calling me Kiryanov, he calls me Bucky, but I'm not either of those people." He flipped through the notebook and pointed angrily at a paragraph. "That was Bucky. On the hill picking blueberries. And that," he turned the page and pointed again "was Kiryanov. The one who trained you. I'm not either of them and I…" He glanced at her carefully, his eyes flicking over her face. "I don't… I can't… I don't want to be."

Natasha found herself almost holding her breath to avoid interrupting him, afraid he might stop talking.

"What right do you have to tell me what Hydra is?" he pressed. "It isn't any of your damn business!" He looked away and down, closing the notebook with a quiet snap.

"I'm sorry," Nat answered, measuring her words carefully. "Look, I'm sorry, it's just… You have their face. You can't blame us for remembering you as them, can you?"

The Soldier's snort indicated that he could, and did.

"But the fact remains, Sergeant: you've been brainwashed by Hydra. All the signs are there, which you would know if you really thought about it."

"I _have_ thought about it," he growled. "And you're wrong."

"I'm not. I should know, I've seen it a thousand times. It happened to me."

Bucky stood up and started pacing, arms crossed, defiant. "They didn't. You tried to."

"No, what we did was kindness, Sergeant. Brainwashing is what they did to you. You keep talking about deserving pain and punishment – that was just a lie they told you."

"I do deserve it!"

"But why?"

Bucky snarled inarticulately and whirled on her, eyes blazing. "Stop asking me that! There doesn't have to be a reason all the time, Natalia, some things just happen because they're supposed to!" He drew back, apparently frightened by his own vehemence, and turned away.

"Not this, though, Kiryanov," she told him gently. "Not their treatment of you."

"Shut up," he answered. The muscles of his back were tense, and he was practically shaking from an emotion that she couldn't quite decipher. "Just… stop. You're just trying to get me to betray them, and I won't."

"They taught you to say that."

"Shut. Up."

Natasha stood, maneuvered towards the door. "Fine, Sergeant. I'm sorry, okay? I'll talk to Steve about not calling you Bucky anymore. But I think you need to stop lying to yourself. You aren't a weapon, you're a person, and you don't have to keep fighting yourself like this."

He didn't answer, just kept standing there.

JARVIS opened the door, and she walked out. "J, send a message to Steve's phone explaining what happened and tell him I'm going to bed."

"Perhaps you might feel better if you talked to him yourself?" JARVIS suggested.

"No. Thanks, but I need some sleep."

"Then consider it done, Agent Romanoff."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been so slow guys! I shouldn't be because all of this is already written..... I just forget. Maybe I better set a schedule. SO, from now on (meaning, from today's updates on), I'll post a chapter twice a week: on Tuesdays and Thursdays until we're caught up.
> 
> In case you haven't noticed: names are very important in this story. They will tell you almost as much about the characters' state of mind, as we go on, as the actual exposition. What Bucky calls himself, Natasha, Steve, and the others is a good hint as to his state of mind. And if I am writing in his POV and call him Bucky, that's prooobably not a slip-up, that's deliberate. Just a little hint I thought I'd give y'all.
> 
> Anyway, please review!


	18. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them accountable, to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a part of every tribute they can't own. That Rue was more than a piece in their Games. And so am I." - Suzanne Collins

For what felt like the thousandth time, Bruce retrieved Tony's safety goggles from where they'd fallen on the floor and handed them to his friend with a sigh. "Tony, you need to stop throwing these around. We wear eye protection for a reason."

The genius huffed and snatched the goggles out of Bruce's hand. "This neural interfacing system isn't working! I've tried everything, Bruce, and I can't make it work."

"You mean _we've_ tried everything," Bruce said patiently, adjusting his glasses and looking through their files again. "And yes, I know it's not working. Keep the goggles on."

Tony grumbled under his breath, but he did as he was told.

Even with the information from SHIELD, they hadn't been able to work out a safe way to replicate the original arm's range of mobility and motor control. SHIELD had encountered a man named Mike Peterson, who had gone from a good man to an enhanced asset and had a metal leg, but its mechanics weren't up to the level of Bucky's arm, and the SHIELD reports contained nothing about the workings of the prosthetic.

"Just focus on finishing the rest of the arm for now, Tony," he said with a sigh. "I'll get JARVIS to run a few more simulations and see if we've missed something in our files."

Simmons was alternating between helping him and doing her own research related to memory and the brain. She wasn't talking much, but occasionally Bruce would look up and see her watching him work with curious eyes. He would smile at her when he caught her, and she would blush and look away.

It was flattering and refreshing, and Bruce wasn't entirely sure how to react. He wasn't used to anyone admiring him, except Tony, and Tony was his equal when it came to science and technology. Simmons, though... She was brilliant, but she was still learning and she admired his work, the Other Guy notwithstanding. In short, Bruce had a fan, and he didn't know how to handle that situation.

He reopened the much-examined SHIELD file and ran a tired hand through his hair. He knew he and Tony could come up with something, but for now they had no viable ideas. In addition to all that, he and Simmons had been trying to work out how best to help Bucky with his brain trauma.

Simmons set down what she was working with and walked over to Tony, her hands clasped nervously together. "Have you tried rerouting those wires so they connect more smoothly to the shoulder joint?" she asked, peering at the raw mechanics of the arm Tony was working on.

"I thought you were in biochem," Tony said, raising a greasy eyebrow.

"Well, I am, but my lab partner Fitz is an engineer," she explained. Bruce noted the way her eyes grew sad when she mentioned him. "So I've learned a bit."

"I was gonna do that later, but thanks for the input, Sims." Tony winked at her and went back to work. She stayed nearby, watching quietly.

"Actually, Simmons," Bruce called. "Could I have your help over here?"

She blinked, startled, and hurried over. No matter how many times he had asked her to work with him over the last few days, she still seemed surprised when he did so.

"So, I know I keep asking about this, but are you sure you don't know anything about the way Deathlok's leg works?"

"I'm positive," Simmons said firmly. "We never got to look at it closely because every time we saw him he was trying to kill us."

"Okay. Before, Bucky's arm was an advanced type of neuroprosthetic, but I don't think we can do that the way Hydra did without hurting him. I was thinking a brain-computer interface, but so far we can't figure a way to make that work as well as it has to because no one has figured out a way to make the brain signals reach the prosthesis accurately and quickly. He'd have limited and uncomfortable motor control, at best."

"Well, I can't see that there are any other options," Simmons said reasonably as he pulled up his research on the subject for her to see. "And if anyone could come up with a way to fix the problems it would be you and Mr. Stark."

"I keep telling you, Sims, it's Tony," the genius grumbled from his workbench. "Mr. Stark was my father."

"Right," Simmons said. "And I'm Jemma or Simmons. Sims is a computer game. Anyway, I think you could do it."

Tony snorted, amused.

"Thanks," Bruce answered, smiling despite himself. "I agree, it's just proving to be more complicated than Tony and I anticipated." He closed the file he was using and began searching through Tony's files to find the blueprint he'd created for the arm. Seeing a file labelled, simply, "Designs", he tapped on it and began browsing through the massive collection. At first it was mostly "Mach 57 Suit" or "StarkPad 2.0", but then he stopped scrolling and raised an eyebrow, fighting back a laugh.

"Hey Tony, what's this?" he asked, selecting the files he'd been looking at and projecting them in the middle of the lab.

"JARVIS!" the genius yelled, staring in some horror at the large-scale file names as they hovered in front of him. "You _let_ him see those, didn't you?"

"You were having difficulty with them, sir, and since Dr. Banner's 'stretchy pants' are already finished, I thought he could help you with the other uniforms."

"Stretchy pants?" Bruce deadpanned, peering at Tony over his glasses. "Seriously?"

"Um… Yeah. Because every time the other guy comes out to play, you rip another good pair of pants, so I figured stretchy pants," his friend explained.

"So what exactly do you mean," Bruce asked, gesturing at the files "by 'Secret Avengers Project'?"

Now that the cat was out of the bag, Tony seemed glad to talk about his plans with someone else, animatedly opening the file and expanding a design for what was obviously a new Captain America uniform. Bruce walked over, grinning. "That's cool, Tony. But why do we need new outfits? I mean, I get why the stretchy pants for me, but…"

"Because have you seen Cap's current uniform?" Tony sighed. "It's a showgirl costume. I can't believe SHIELD let him wear that in combat."

Simmons let out an unladylike snort and covered her mouth with one hand, eyes twinkling.

"Exactly! Thank you!" the billionaire said, without missing a beat. "So he gets a new uniform and I'm trying to work out a way he can get his shield back after he throws it, because for some reason he feels like chucking away his shield is a good tactical decision."

"What else are you doing?"

"Well…" Tony opened the rest of his designs. "Here's some new arrows for Legolas, and some normal archer's gear but cooler, and here's your pants, and here's a new set of wings and tech for Wilson (way better than those old ones, I might add), and here's some knives for Red and an updated catsuit, and-"

"Knowing you I'm surprised you didn't make her uniform… I don't know, see-through or something."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Hey, I have a girlfriend. Besides, she and Pepper would both kill me _and_ this is for fighting in, not modeling. It's not done yet; I'm trying to make it cooler and actually, less tight. What she's got now cannot be comfortable. Anyway, I thought about making something for Thor, but he isn't around lately and besides, I don't think he needs anything from me."

Bruce nodded. "This is really cool, Tony. But what do you need my help for?"

"Well, I have great taste in style and fashion and stuff, but…" Here Tony shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know what you guys would want everything to look like."

Bruce smiled fondly, shaking his head. Tony had a reputation as a snarky, self-obsessed playboy who couldn't care less what anyone thought, but the more time Bruce spent with him, the more he realized that under all that textbook narcissism was a great deal of insecurity and a longing to make people like him.

"Um… Maybe I could help? At least with Natasha's?" Simmons interjected quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and adjusting her weight from foot to foot.

"A woman's touch never hurt anything," Bruce said kindly. "Your input would be welcomed, Jemma."

She bit her lip to control an excited smile, and the three of them went to work.

* * *

Bucky didn't move for the first fifteen minutes after Natalia left. It wasn't that he couldn't or that he didn't want to; as a matter of fact it wasn't even a conscious decision. He stared unseeing at the wall, holding himself dead still, trying so hard to ignore the little voice in his head that told him that Natalia was right. That none of this made any sense unless Hydra was evil, unless Hydra had brainwashed him.

But they weren't. They couldn't have. He needed Hydra to be right.

Because when he thought about it, that was the one thing he'd known for sure for a long time. Hydra was his only constant, the one thing he trusted first and foremost. They had taught him everything he knew. Thinking about that reassured him, if only slightly.

Rumlow wouldn't have let them brainwash him, right?

But even that wasn't reassuring. Because if he had been brainwashed – he forced himself to consider the possibility – that would imply that Rumlow had been involved.

He felt himself jolted into motion then, striding small circles around the room, clutching his middle because he felt rather sick.

It was bad enough that Hydra might not be what he thought, but Rumlow… There was something so _backwards_ about the suggestion, and about his response to it, that he wanted to throw up.

If Hydra had been the only thing the Soldier trusted, then Rumlow was the only person in Hydra that he'd trusted. Pierce was his handler, Pierce was to be respected and obeyed, but Rumlow was different. The Asset couldn't actually have said how, but-

_"You aren't a weapon, you're a person."_

Nobody had ever said anything like that to the Soldier before. Not Rumlow, not Pierce, not his other handlers, certainly not his targets. He wasn't a person. That was what Hydra said.

But what if Hydra was lying?

Hydra wasn't lying. They wouldn't.

He stopped walking, overwhelmed by his own thoughts. He literally didn't know what to do, he couldn't do this, what was he supposed to do in this situation, why wasn't anything making sense, how could he figure this out, who was Rogers, who was Natalia and who the hell was he?

He leaned against the wall, his palm pressed flat to the smooth surface, and clenched his eyes shut tight, teeth gritted.

He was punished because he deserved to be.

But why?

What the hell had he ever done to deserve what they did?

And when he told himself it was because he made mistakes, he couldn't get past that question: why. Why did it matter? Why did his missions matter? Why did he have to torture and kill people whose only crime (that he could think of) was opposing Hydra? Why was it that Hydra was so important that everyone else could be trampled on and tossed aside?

Why did Rumlow tell him he was worthless but Natalia told him he was a person? Why did Rogers get so angry when he heard about Bucky being in pain, but Hydra hurt him as a matter of course and even for fun?

Why did his opinions matter?

Why _didn't_ they?

He slowly slid to the floor, holding his head, grimacing.

This was all too much. Too much to feel, to think, to understand.

When he let himself consider the idea that Hydra brainwashed him, that he was a person (or at least used to be), then all his memories began falling into place, painting a picture that he didn't want to see. So he recoiled from that vein of thinking, trying desperately to create a situation where Hydra hadn't brainwashed him. Where they were right.

And the memories no longer fit. They scraped him raw and bleeding.

Because he _knew_ , with more surety than he cared to admit, that he wasn't a machine because he felt far, far too much and his hand throbbed where his fingernails dug into his palm and his throat ached with what might have been tears.

He couldn't.

So he curled in on himself and clutched his hair with his hand and he tried to hide himself away, small and safe in a corner of his mind.

But he couldn't.

_"I'm so sorry."_

_"I'm not going to do anything to you. You didn't mean to hurt me and things aren't going to be like that anymore."_

_"You deserve better. You deserve to remember, to have your life back."_

_"Bucky, come on, buddy, you're at Avengers Tower and you're safe now."_

_"I'm so sorry, Barnes."_

_"Hydra's full of bullshit and they need to be stopped."_

_"No, Kiryanov, you are your own. You belong to yourself."_

_"Bucky, I didn't want you to fall. I'm so sorry."_

_"No. Oh God, Bucky, no. Look, you were my friend, you were my best friend, and we worked together. I just couldn't reach you in time."_

_"Steve used to be your friend and we're just trying to keep you safe."_

_"No, what we did was kindness, Sergeant. Brainwashing is what they did to you. You keep talking about deserving pain and punishment – did you ever think that was just a lie they told you?"_

_"Stop lying to yourself."_

James Buchanan Barnes, exhausted, confused, angry, cried himself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter is angst angsty angst. I actually triggered myself a bit when I wrote it because talking about Rumlow's abuse of Bucky the way I did was hard for me. Hopefully it makes the chapter better though.
> 
> I wrote from Bruce's POV for my friend CandyCaneCool, because he is her fave.
> 
> Please leave a comment and kudos!


	19. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Look. (Grown-ups skip this paragraph) I'm not about to tell you this book has a tragic ending. I already said in the very first line how it was my favorite in all the world. But there's a lot of bad stuff coming." - William Goldman

Steve left the Tower that evening at around six thirty, tired of seeing the exact same rooms every day and tired of thinking about all his problems.

He'd spent some time Googling what churches would have services on Sunday night, and had found a place that apparently had a seven o'clock worship service and prayer. It wasn't Catholic, but he wasn't too picky anymore.

In D.C. he'd discovered a nice church that wasn't affiliated with any particular denomination, and he'd ended up calling it "his church" and going there whenever he had a free Sunday. The people there had been kind and hadn't cared that he was Captain America (or at least pretended not to, which amounted to the same thing), and although he knew none of the songs they sang at first, the atmosphere felt safe and friendly.

He didn't tell anyone where he was going, mostly out of a desire to have at least some measure of privacy, and took his motorcycle. The breeze was warm and stiff against his shoulders as he rode, trying to pretend that he wasn't a super soldier who could very well have an enemy in the car next to him.

He arrived at the large brick building just a few minutes before seven, and took a moment to run a hand through his hair and adjust his jacket. He wasn't sure he wanted to go in; there was no guarantee that everyone inside wouldn't spend the whole night awkwardly glancing at him while they tried to focus on the service. But he needed some encouragement, and if that meant letting a congregation of American Christians stare at him for a few hours, fine.

He walked into the lobby, reflexively taking note of the exits and most defensible places in the area. A few people glanced at him, away, and then back, and he could imagine their whispers.

_Is that Captain America?_

_In our church?_

He tried to ignore them, heading straight for the sanctuary on the left side of the building. No matter how many times he went out in public, the attention never got any easier to deal with.

Thankfully, the people in the sanctuary were slower to notice him, busy talking to each other, so he'd found a seat in the back of the room before they could start noticing the muscular, six foot four man making his awkward way past the plastic folding chairs.

Of course, soon enough they'd all know he was there, but that couldn't be helped.

Slowly the room began filling up with people, the band started playing music, and Steve managed to lose himself in the semi-familiar words and tune of the songs. Much to his relief, once the lights dimmed and people had someone to focus on besides him, the tension around him eased, although he could tell that those sitting close to him were uncomfortable by the way their shoulders tensed and they seemed to be singing more quietly than they otherwise would.

The message began, something about God's grace, but Steve wasn't able to pay much attention because, only a few minutes in, he got the sense that something wasn't right. He shifted in his seat and scanned the room closely, looking for anything unusual.

It was the disinterested stares that tipped him off. Sure, maybe some people went to church and didn't actually care. But entirely too much of the congregation looked disdainful or bored, and unfortunately many of those seemed tactically spaced out through the room. Closer inspection had him realizing that most of them were well-built men and women with the bearing of fighters.

Steve swallowed.

He had come here without his shield and put civilians in danger. He had a handgun in the waistband of his jeans, sure, but he knew he was at a significant disadvantage. He was outnumbered, certainly outgunned, and Hydra (if that was who was here) would never hesitate to use the gathered people against him.

He had to leave, and leave now, before they showed their hand.

Casually, almost too casually, he got up, offering apologetic smiles to the people next to him as he edged past them. He had to get out of the sanctuary.

He tried to stay calm, easy, refusing to let his posture betray his nervousness. Go carefully, Rogers. If he messed up, innocent people could die.

He made it into the lobby without incident and made his way to the drinking fountain, bending over to swallow some water. Playing it cool.

Then, still leisurely and slow, he walked outside, aiming for his bike. He had to get out of here.

"Nice try, Cap." Rumlow stepped out in front of him, followed by a small strike team with guns leveled at Steve's head. "I guess my people are bad at pretending to be a bunch of religious freaks, huh?" His exposed skin was fractured by scars from burns and cuts. Steve felt a surge of fury upon seeing him, remembering everything he'd seen in Bucky's journal.

"I don't know," he ground out. "I'd say being part of a Nazi death cult qualifies them as both religious and freaky."

"Cute," Rumlow said. "Let's make this really simple, alright? You come quietly, and by quietly I mean stop trying to get at your phone, or I'll have my people in the church start shooting. Is that clear enough for you, Cap, or do you need me to demonstrate what I mean?"

Steve pulled his hand out of his pocket and held both arms out at his sides. "Yeah, I get it. How am I supposed to know you won't just start killing people anyway, though?"

"I'd like to say you don't, but let's be realistic. I'm not wasteful, and I'm on the run. I'd prefer not to make a scene by killing all those poor, helpless people in there. But you know..." He smiled, and Steve wondered how he'd never seen the cruelty in that smile before. "We do our jobs."

"Yeah, I know," he snapped.

"So why don't you go ahead and drop your phone and gun on the ground and we'll be on our way?"

Steve lifted his StarkPhone out of his pocket, feeling blindly for the button Tony had installed. He managed to locate and press it as he dropped the device onto the pavement. His gun followed shortly after.

The Hydra agents quickly surrounded him and shoved him onto his knees. He gritted his teeth but went down. He didn't have a choice, really.

The butt of someone's gun crashed into his head and he crumpled. A moment later everything faded to black as the gun struck him again.

...

The first thing he became aware of when he came to was that his hands were cuffed behind his back, the thick metal digging painfully into his wrists. He forced his eyes open with a hissed breath between his teeth and managed to leverage himself upright from where he lay on his side. The rush of blood from his already aching head made him dizzy and he winced, feeling momentarily sick.

He was in a basement of some kind, which, unfortunately, seemed to be bare of anything useful. It was lit by dusty lightbulbs at regular intervals, and there were no windows, so he was unsure how long he'd been out. He glanced behind him. The handcuffs, which looked like SHIELD standard issue but felt stronger, were attached to a support beam in the middle of the basement and, unfortunately, didn't seem like they were going to budge. He scowled and yanked on them anyway, heedless of the sharp pain that caused him.

He worked at the cuffs for a long time, but they didn't give, and all he succeeded in doing was rubbing his wrists raw. Finally, however, he stopped as several sets of footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs into the basement.

"You're awake," Rumlow said. "Good." Steve pointedly ignored him until he effectively got the Captain's attention by kicking him brutally in the stomach. For a moment he couldn't breathe, and he closed his eyes and controlled his momentary panic until the air began flowing back into his lungs. "Son of a bitch," Steve growled, glaring up at Rumlow in disgust.

"Language, Cap," the man said, drawing back his foot for another kick.

Steve turned his head aside just in time so that the blow landed on his jaw instead of his mouth, and he had to bite back a deep groan as his head snapped back.

"I'm gonna kill you," he said. And he would. He was sure of that.

"No, you're not. You want to know what is going to happen, Rogers? We're going to make your little boy band give me back my asset in exchange for you."

"His name is Bucky Barnes," Steve hissed. "And he's a person, not a toy for you to throw around."

"Maybe he used to be, but not anymore."

"Wanna bet, asshole?"

Rumlow's mouth twisted in a sadistic smirk and he grabbed Steve's hair, jerking his head back. Steve winced, but he met Rumlow's eyes defiantly. "Do you honestly think your team wouldn't swap a malfunctioning Hydra weapon for America's finest soldier? Because frankly it isn't even a fair trade." He let go and wiped his hand off on his pants.

"Whenever you feel like shutting up is fine with me," Steve muttered.

This time he was backhanded across the face for his remark, which might have hurt less if his jaw wasn't already throbbing. Rumlow didn't stop to talk this time, though; he followed the slap with a heavy rain of punches and kicks to Steve's head and torso. The super soldier went limp and did his best to weather the mistreatment without a sound.

All things considered, he got off lightly, because after only a few minutes, Rumlow stopped beating him and left without further comment, followed by the agents who'd come with him. Steve waited till he was sure he was gone, then let out a long, shaky breath.

Moving hurt; if he had to guess he'd say he had a few broken ribs, and he could almost feel dozens of bruises blossoming everywhere else. Besides that, his lip was split and stinging and the area around his left eye was swelling up.

Slowly, painstakingly, he shifted so he could lean against the beam he was cuffed to, going back to working at his restraints. The team was already on high alert and probably looking for him, he knew, but whether he would be found soon or at all remained to be seen.

Tony had built in a feature on all of their StarkPhones that was, essentially, an emergency call for backup. The button was on the outside of the phone, easily accessible but still discreet.

Steve had pressed that button as he removed the cellphone from his pocket back at the church.

He tensed as he heard more footsteps on the stairs, but it was just an agent with a phone who stood well back and, apparently, took a photo.

Steve almost wanted to laugh. The Avengers didn't need a blurry iPhone camera to tell them he was gone, they already knew.

He wasn't worried about them giving in and making the exchange. Maybe he should have been, but he knew that there was no way his team was returning Bucky to Hydra. Not after everything they'd accomplished.

What he was a little more concerned about was how long he'd have to stay here. It wasn't like he'd never been tortured before; you fight the bad guys long enough and you learn a few things about suffering. But he didn't exactly enjoy the experience, and Rumlow knew, better than most, what his pain threshold was and how to hurt him. So naturally, he really hoped that the Avengers showed up sooner rather than later.

He hadn't been sure where he was or what time it was, but evidently it was still late Sunday evening, because before long and despite his injuries, he had drifted off to sleep.

He was awoken by a shock of cold water in the face that made his whole body spasm, his head slamming into the beam he was cuffed to, his ribs and bruises protesting violently against the movement. He shook his head to get some of the water out of his eyes.

Licking his lips, he realized with some satisfaction that the serum had mended his split lip as he slept, and relieved some of the minor pains from his beating the night before. Unfortunately, he didn't think that was going to be of much help to him.

Rumlow and his second-in-command, Jack Rollins, stood in front of him. Steve couldn't help but feel a bit vindicated; he'd never liked Rollins much, so at least in that he'd had good judgement.

"Good morning, sunshine," Rumlow said, crouching so he was at Steve's eye level. The Captain felt fear digging its cold claws into his spine as he noticed the knife in Rumlow's left hand, but he controlled it, ignored it, pushed it away.

"You know where you can stick that," Steve answered, his voice still rough and heavy with sleep.

Rumlow smiled and lifted the knife to Steve's throat. An empty threat, but a threat all the same. "Keep talking and I'll cut out your tongue. You can still fight without it, so I'm sure your team won't mind."

Steve scowled but didn't say anything further.

The knife moved from his neck to his cheek, and Rumlow paused almost thoughtfully before digging the point of the weapon in and carving a long line down Steve's face. The Captain closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, trying to mentally prepare himself for what was coming. _They don't even need anything from me. They just like seeing me helpless._

They used to treat Bucky like this.

He opened his eyes and glared at Rumlow, suddenly determined not to flinch, not to cry out, not to react at all. Not for them. Not after what they'd done.

There was a butcher's delight in Rollins' dark eyes and a smug sadism in Rumlow's. Steve gritted his teeth and resigned himself to the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original plan for this chapter was that Steve would go do the classic "ask a pastor for advice" trope, but then I kinda couldn't get rid of this plot bunny and so Steve got tortured instead. Sorry, Steve.
> 
> Please review, and also don't worry: Steve will be okay.
> 
> (P.S. Unlike my FF.net readers, you get to wait until Thursday to find out what happens because I'm mean.)


	20. Captive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you." - George R.R. Martin

The Avengers had been on high alert since around eight o'clock the previous evening when every screen in the Tower lit up with the notification that Steve had called for backup. They'd locked Bucky in his suite with a brief excuse and flown straight to the church that his phone's GPS directed them to, but all they'd found was a crowd of worried people who had seen the phone and gun on the sidewalk, realized that Captain America was gone, and put two and two together.

So Natasha had spent hours interviewing the pastor, the worship band, and anyone who thought they'd seen something strange. All she'd been able to work out was that there had been a large number of hostiles in the church, that they had probably not arrived or left in a quinjet, and that they had most likely been Hydra agents. Once the team got back to the Tower, Tony got JARVIS running calculations, hacking video feeds, combing through Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr and Instagram for any mention of the Captain.

Then, early Monday morning (at about 6:45), as they crowded around the table in the conference room examining the fairly promising results of their search, an encrypted message popped up on the wall screen.

"What's this, J?" Tony asked. Natasha exchanged glances with Clint.

"I don't know, sir," JARVIS said, managing to sound flustered. "But it's hostile; it's trying to infect my systems with a virus."

Tony swore and grabbed his tablet, tapping furiously at the screen. "Open the message," he ordered tersely, apparently trying to assist the AI.

Natasha looked back at the large screen. The message blinked open. It was simple and badly-formatted, clearly made in a hurry.

She ignored the text in favor of examining the photograph sent with it, her heart beating fast with anger and concern. It was Steve. He was wearing one of his ridiculous exercise shirts and jeans, his shoes gone. The frustrated expression on his face would have looked funny if it weren't for the faint bruises that blossomed on his exposed skin and the slight trickle of blood on his lip.

"Damn him," Tony snapped. "He shouldn't have left like that."

Nat bit back a sharp retort, knowing that Tony was actually frustrated with the situation and not with Steve. "Well, he did, and we need to get him back, so if you could focus?"

Tony scowled but didn't answer.

"They want us to give them back Barnes in return for Steve," Clint said. "We have an hour to answer them or they're gonna torture him on camera and broadcast it on every news network available until we do what they want. And if we refuse to trade, his execution goes live instead."

"Do we have any kind of guarantee?" Natasha said, quickly reading the message.

"Not really, but knowing Hydra, I'd say they would and could do it."

"Great."

"We aren't giving Bucky to them," Sam said looking around. "We're all agreed on that, right?"

There was a chorus of nods. "We could never trust them to honor the deal," Natasha said. "And anyway, Bucky is just getting better. There's no way in hell I'm letting him go back."

"Give me another half hour," Tony said, "and I think I can have a fix on his location. JARVIS, collect what data you can from that photo and use it to narrow the search."

* * *

"You see, Cap," Rumlow said, twisting his knife slowly. "Your team has fifteen minutes to let me know if they're gonna make the swap, or all this" he punctuated the word with a cruel push on the weapon "goes live until they comply."

Steve was barely listening, focusing with all his strength on staying silent and not making a sound because he couldn't feel anything but the cold metal in his shoulder and he wanted to cry out from the ripping pain of it. Vaguely he was aware that he didn't want anyone to see what was happening to him, but that thought vanished as Rumlow jerked the knife out of his shoulder and, without pause, slashed it across his chest. Steve gasped, grimacing, and tried to pull away, but as with every other time, he couldn't. He kept his gaze locked on Rumlow's, glaring, hating him.

His torturer lifted the knife, eyeing its red blade disinterestedly. "I wonder if anyone would mind terribly if we returned you minus an eye," he hummed, grabbing Steve's chin and tilting his head sharply from side to side. "They'd probably just slap an eye patch on it and tell you to keep fighting. What do you think? I mean, Romanoff might not, but then she's always been soft under all that leather."

Steve avoided looking at the knife because if he did, then he'd be afraid. And he couldn't afford to be afraid.

"What do you think, Rollins?" Rumlow said, glancing back at his partner, who'd taken a break a few minutes ago. "Left eye or right?"

"Right," Rollins said gruffly, smiling slightly. He wasn't talkative like Rumlow; he preferred working in silence.

"Sounds fair. Right it is."

Steve tried to jerk his head out of Rumlow's grip, but he had no space to move and everything hurt and he was tired, so the specialist just held on tighter and brought the tip of the knife up to Steve's eye.

He couldn't look away because the glittering point filled his view, hovering too close. He pulled his head back, more reflex than anything, and Rumlow laughed.

Steve wanted to kill him for that.

He managed to close his eyes, blocking out the sight of the knife and the blood and Rumlow and then-

He had never been so happy to hear "Highway to Hell" in his life.

His eyes flew open as the grip on his chin vanished. Rumlow was standing, swearing, barking orders into his collar as he shoved Rollins into motion. Steve immediately started yanking on his cuffs again, biting his lip as numerous injuries throbbed and stretched. He knew full well that he wasn't safe yet; Rumlow was furious and he was immobilized. Upstairs, there was an eruption of sound: crashes, gunshots, shouts, screams.

There was still no guarantee that he was getting out of this alive.

Rumlow was distracted, headed for the stairs in a moment of uncertainty, when an extra loud crash echoed from the top of the steps and Iron Man swooped in. He slammed into Rumlow without an ounce of hesitation, pummeling the specialist in the face.

Tony probably hit him a few more times than was strictly necessary.

Steve stopped struggling and let himself go limp, relief and pain making his limbs weak.

"Damn, Cap," Tony said, his voice muffled behind his visor. He didn't say anything else, just strode over and bent down to break the handcuffs. Then, without preamble, he put one arm under Steve's shoulders and gingerly helped him up. "Natasha has your shield, but there's no way you're fighting in that condition. Hey Rhodey, can you come pick up some garbage for me? I have to help the Capsicle." Steve would have argued, but even just standing hurt like hell, and he wasn't sure walking was a good idea.

The Captain didn't hear Rhodey's response, but it was apparently an agreement, because Tony's visor flipped up, revealing the worried face underneath. "You didn't look this bad in the picture they sent," he said. "Go figure they'd keep beating you up in the meantime. We'll fix you up when we get back, okay?"

"I know I'm a wreck, Tony," Steve grumbled. "Can we just go?"

The genius raised an eyebrow. "Alright, we're going."

Steve was ashamed to realize that Tony was going to have to take most of his weight; besides the agony of his broken ribs, stab wounds, cuts, and bruises, his legs were half asleep. Oh yeah, and they'd been cut up too.

Stark made no comment on the matter, simply helping Steve stagger out of the basement and out through a hole he'd apparently blasted in the wall. The injured soldier glanced back as they went, noticing the team taking down Hydra agents in the various rooms of the house that he'd been imprisoned under.

"Hey Bruce, tell Jemma that Steve's considerably worse-off then he was before. I don't want her freaking out. Because no offense, Cap, but you look horrible."

"You said that already," Steve muttered, focusing on his feet, scowling in frustration at himself. He realized, somewhat dimly, that it was stupid of him to be upset at his own sluggishness when he'd been tortured, but all his thoughts seemed stupid at the moment anyway. His ribs hurt with every step and his shirt was covered in blood and maybe he should take it off so he didn't scare Simmons too much and God, his head was positively spinning and why did everything hurt so much?

His legs gave out just before they reached the quinjet, and if it wasn't for Tony's arm he would have crashed to the ground. As it was, he was jerked to a painful stop and couldn't hold back a groan.

"Shit. Sorry, Steve," Tony said, carefully pulling the Captain to his feet.

Steve thought maybe he was supposed to say something like "it's okay" but all he could feel was pain everywhere so he mumbled a response and tried to keep walking but crap, that hurt worse and his legs buckled again.

"Alright, look, I'm just gonna carry you," Tony said, sounding irritated, but his eyes were worried. "Damnit, Capsicle, I get the whole being religious thing, but do you really have to be stupid as well?"

Steve winced and forced back a cry as Tony picked him up, torn between being thankful he didn't have to walk anymore and ashamed that he needed to be carried.

The gratefulness won out.

Bruce and Simmons both looked stunned when they saw him, but then at the same moment their faces became determined. If Steve had had any energy, he would have found that amusing.

"Lay him down over here," Bruce said. Steve winced, realizing he was going to be moved again. Damn it.

The transition, however, from Tony's arms to the quinjet floor was less painful than he'd expected. Bruce started cutting his shirt off with a pair of scissors. "Hey JARVIS, can I have a full-body scan, please?"

"Already done, Dr. Banner."

Steve closed his eyes, hoping they would let him rest. He just wanted to not feel all the injuries anymore.

"We're going to have to do a quick patch-up for now. Hand me the bandages, please."

Steve tuned out the sound of Bruce's voice and let sleep take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, Rumlow started torturing Steve at about 6 AM and wasn't stopped until about 8:30, two and a half hours later. So Steve is, understandably, VERY beat up and cut up and in pain. *coughs* Yeah, again, sorry about that, Stevie.
> 
> Please review, and don't hate me for doing this to Steve!


	21. Protectiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sound the bugle now - play it just for me  
> As the seasons change - remember how I used to be  
> Now I can't go on - I can't even start  
> I've got nothing left - just an empty heart  
> I'm a soldier - wounded so I must give up the fight  
> There's nothing more for me - lead me away...  
> Or leave me lying here  
> Sound the bugle now - tell them I don't care  
> There's not a road I know - that leads to anywhere  
> Without a light I fear that I will stumble in the dark  
> Lay right down - decide not to go on  
> Then from on high - somewhere in the distance  
> There's a voice that calls, 'Remember who you are'  
> If you lose yourself - your courage soon will follow  
> So be strong tonight - remember who you are  
> Yeah you're a soldier now - fighting in a battle  
> To be free once more - yeah, that's worth fighting for." - Bryan Adams

The Soldier paced the length of his room again and again, up and down. He didn't know why he'd been locked up again, and all Jarvis or anyone would tell him was that the Avengers had a mission. He didn't know what they were doing, but their absence and his sudden incarceration were ominous, concerning.

He wasn't sure what he thought they were doing, but he hated this, hated not having actionable intel.

At least this gave him something to think about besides Hydra and brainwashing and Rumlow.

He spent the whole night on his feet, too anxious to stop pacing. He didn't know what was happening and he didn't like it.

Finally Jarvis informed him that he was allowed out of his suite. The British voice sounded different than normal. Quieter, more subdued. The Soldier left his room cautiously, almost as if he was on a mission. He wasn't sure what was going on, but everything felt off - there was a silent tension in the air that he could almost feel.

"Jarvis, where is everyone?" he asked gruffly, right hand curling into a fist.

"They are in the medical rooms," Jarvis answered. "You will need special permission to join them, however."

The Soldier nodded and waited, massaging his left shoulder. The decision was a long time in coming, but at last Jarvis broke the silence and told him where to go and how to get to the team.

As usual, the elevator journey made him uncomfortable (he hated being in the enclosed space, unable to see where he was going), but once he stepped out into the hallway of the forty-eighth floor, he shook off the lingering nervousness and glanced around. Catching sight of Natalia standing outside a door to his left, he strode over to her, still unnerved by the atmosphere of heavy tension.

She glanced over, saw him, forced a small smile, and gestured at the door she was waiting outside of.

"What's…" The Soldier swallowed. "What's going on?"

"Here." Natalia pushed open the door of the room for him, and he hesitated a moment before stepping through, eyeing her carefully.

Everything about this situation felt wrong.

The room was a hospital room, basically. Simple, white, sterile, full of equipment and concerned faces. They all turned and looked at him when he walked in, varying degrees of concern and weariness that made him afraid.

Wilson moved aside so he could see the hospital bed, and it took him a moment to register what he was looking at.

Rogers was lying on the bed, eyes closed, face frozen in a pained frown. He was covered in hastily-applied bandages, but wherever there was bare skin, there were dark, patterned bruises and minor cuts and scrapes.

The scientist and Simmons were working around him, hooking him up to machines, and wielding needles, bandages, and syringes.

This, whatever the hell this was, felt so off. It made him feel guilty, sorry, angry. And deeply, darkly afraid. "Is he…?" He wasn't sure what he was asking, but he had to know if Rogers was okay.

"He'll be fine, Barnes," Natalia said from behind him. He flinched; he couldn't help it.

"How did this happen?" he asked. He was missing something here, something important, and it made his head hurt. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Rogers' prone form. It occurred to him that someone like Rogers should never get hurt like this. His strong figure looked so much smaller on the hospital bed.

"He was captured last night. That's why we locked you up; we had to go find him and get him back but we weren't sure you should be wandering the Tower alone."

The Soldier wanted to ask who did this; who would do this. But he was afraid of the answer and his head was aching and he knew he had to remember something so he closed his eyes and tried so hard to figure out what was going on, why he felt so angry that someone had done this to the Captain, and his head hurt and it hurt… and the flashback hit him like a truck.

_"Steve? Damn it, punk." Bucky couldn't find Steve. Again. This was becoming a frustrating and painful pattern. They'd go to a fair or a movie or a show and stupid Steve would run off and pick a fight with someone and then Bucky would have to abandon his date to go save his ass._

_He jogged through the fairground, looking for out of the way spots where his idiot best friend might get into a fight. He'd combed over half the fairgrounds now, so he wasn't too surprised when he found Steve in the last place he looked._

_The punk was getting thrashed by two guys, gamely getting up every time he fell and trying to get a punch in, but despite his good form (Bucky had made an effort to teach him how to fight), he just kept getting knocked down. Bucky cursed how long it had taken him to find the kid; Steve's face was bruised and his nose was probably broken (again). He rolled up his sleeves and strode into the fight, fists swinging purposefully._

_He'd become adept at ending fights in only seconds, every punch and kick counting for something. One of the bullies howled as Bucky's fist slammed into his stomach; the other crashed to the ground like a felled tree when Bucky kneed him between the legs._

_"Good Lord, Stevie, what did they do this time?" he said, irritated, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and looking him over as the bullies staggered upright and away. "Sorry I took so long. You need to stop gettin' in fights all the time."_

_"And you need to stop babying me," Steve grumbled, pulling away. "I'm fine."_

_"No, you aren't. Stupid punk, quit pickin' fights you can't win!"_

_Steve scowled, but he let Bucky examine his nose._

_"You got it broken again," the older boy finally sighed, shaking his head. "Come on, we're going home."_

_"Aw, Buck," Steve groaned, his eyes growing apologetic. "You're on a date."_

_"Well, I was. You know, if you could at least save the fights for when I'm not tryin' to sweet-talk a dame, that would be swell."_

_Steve snorted, although he obviously still felt bad. "Really though, Bucky, I'm sorry, I-"_

_"Oh shut up, Stevie. I'm just sorry I couldn't find you quicker; you're a freakin' mess."_

_"Yeah, thanks, Barnes."_

_"Punk."_

_"Jerk."_

Bucky's recovery from the flashback was slower this time, a gradual return to reality that averted the head-spinning confusion he usually experienced. Wilson was holding his shoulder, watching him carefully, while the rest of the team eyed them with concern. The Soldier shook free of the man's grip and looked back at the bed.

He protected Rogers. That was what he did. And he'd failed.

Not a mission, really, unless it was one he'd given himself.

"Who did that?" he asked, gesturing at the bed, cold surety making him feel stronger.

Everyone in the room shifted, looked away. The Soldier could tell they didn't want to tell him, and he bit back the anger that wanted to give voice to the question again.

Natalia moved to stand next to him, posture wary. "Are you sure you want to know, Barnes? It might-"

"Tell me." He stared at the Captain's weary face, outwardly impassive. Inwardly the worry and rage were twisting in his gut like a nest of snakes.

"Hydra," she said. The word dropped like a stone, heavy and loaded with all kinds of confusing emotions.

The Soldier swallowed. He'd been afraid that would be the answer, but it still hit him hard. Hydra had done this to Rogers. Everything about that thought was wrong, confusing, disturbing.

He glanced around, hoping that the people around him some clue of how he was supposed to react, but to his dismay they didn't seem to know what to expect from him. He shuffled his feet, looking back at Rogers.

Part of his mind noted the injuries and acknowledged the expert way they'd been made; whoever had done this knew what they were doing. The other part of his mind was all anger and protectiveness.

"Are you okay, Barnes?" Natalia asked him carefully.

He looked at her, nodding tersely. "Yes. I'm fine. I'm going to get breakfast."

He turned and walked away, fighting to keep his steps even and steady although all he wanted to do was run away from the situation and never look back.

When he arrived in the kitchen, he retrieved a glass from a cabinet, filling it with cold water. His grip on the cup was shaky, and he scowled in frustration at his own weakness. Going over to th couch, he sat down, drawing his legs up to his chest. Thankfully, the team hadn't followed him upstairs, which left him alone with his thoughts.

As if he hadn't already been confused enough, this had to happen. Earlier he had managed to compartmentalize most of his thoughts so that he could focus on the crisis at hand, but now that he knew where the Avengers had been and what they'd been doing, the rabid wolves that were his thoughts were reasserting themselves.

Seeing Rogers like that was unnatural. It made him nervous, as if... as if something he trusted had just been shaken. Did he trust Rogers? He thought maybe he did.

It was instinct, nearly.

More disconcerting than anything, however, was the realization that if he had managed to get back to Hydra, if he was where he was supposed to be, he probably would have been the one wielding the knife while his handler watched. And he hated that idea, that he would have done all that (and much, much worse) and never even questioned why.

_Brainwashing._

He gulped more water and got up to refill the glass, more to keep himself busy than anything else. Was this what being brainwashed felt like? Distorted, not sure what was real and what was just a lie you'd been told? Not even wanting to make your own choices?

Because he wasn't sure whether Hydra was right or not, he wasn't sure whether the Avengers were safe or not, but he had realized one thing: he wanted to make his own decision about it. He liked things as they were. He liked sleeping and eating and drinking and taking care of himself.

He felt safe.

That wasn't a familiar feeling for him. Hydra had taught him that everything was dangerous, everything could be a test, trust no one and nothing except your programming.

But the Tower was safe, he thought. He should have been punished a thousand times for everything he'd done here. He should've been put in cryo, wiped, terminated, anything but the infinite… whatever it was that made the Avengers treat him the way they did.

And yet constantly, cold, harsh, familiar, _right_ , he could feel his programming, informing his decisions, pointing him back to Hydra like a compass needle. And that frightened him because he knew that if he let it, his protocol would take over and he would do what he always did.

Obey.

Go back.

Stop fighting.

It scared him how tenuous his new grip on what he felt and wanted really was. It had been so incredibly easy to compartmentalize and to regain his mission mindset at the slightest hint of a crisis. What if something really dangerous happened and he just… stopped? What if he lost all the memories he'd gotten back, lost the ability to feel again?

It hurt to feel, but he thought it was better.

Because if he could feel, it meant he was a person.

And that changed everything.

He set down his glass and rested his chin on his knees, staring past the furniture to look out the window.

His left arm hurt where it should have been, phantom pains that made him shift on the couch and close his eyes.

He was so incredibly tired.

* * *

Tony didn't stay in the med bay any longer than necessary, excusing himself as soon as he could to take off his suit. He went straight to his lab, and after the robots removed his suit, he dropped into a chair and rubbed his hands tiredly over his face.

"Would you like me to pull up your blueprints, sir?"

"Just a minute, JARVIS," Tony said. He got up and washed his hands and forearms vigorously. Holding the Captain in his arms, limp and bleeding and in pain, had shaken him (although he only admitted that to himself). While he didn't much like Steve, there was something about seeing someone who was normally so confident and imposing suddenly vulnerable. It was jarring.

Besides all that, though, it reminded Tony entirely too much of his time with the Ten Rings. So he poured himself a generous glass of scotch and gulped it down, trying to steady his shaking hands.

"I think I want to work on a new suit, JARVIS," he said finally, setting down his now-empty glass and cracking his knuckles.

"Very good, sir. Are you alright?"

"Sure," Tony answered. "Just feeling unnecessarily worried about the guy my dad liked better than me."

JARVIS did not answer, but then there wasn't really a good answer to Tony's sentiments anyway. He went to work, knowing that was the only way to keep his memories of Afghanistan from drowning him. Unless he got drunk, which he was trying never to do again.

"Perhaps this time a more subtle color would be wise," JARVIS said. "You certainly didn't manage to sneak up on Hydra this morning."

"Sneaking wasn't the plan, J," Tony grumbled, but he figured it might be cool to have a suit with stealth features, so he started planning, pulling up the schematics for stealth mode on quinjets and the helicarrier.

"Tony?" Pepper came into the lab, dressed casually in sweatpants and a Stark Industries t-shirt.

"Yeah?" he asked, pausing in his work to look at her.

"How's it going?" She was carrying an armful of papers, which probably meant he had to sign or approve something.

"Fine," he lied. "Just working on a new suit."

"Nice. I need you to take a break and make a few decisions in regards to those renovations you ordered downstairs." She pulled a chair up next to him and sat down, setting the papers in front of them, but then she noticed the way his hands were shaking and the empty scotch glass on his worktable. "Oh, Tony." She shook her head at him and took his hand in hers. "What's wrong?"

"Cap got held hostage last night," he explained. "And we didn't get him back till this morning, and he's… He'll be fine, Bruce says, but…"

"I get it," Pepper said quietly. "Why don't we go do something else, and you can do the paperwork later?"

"What are you thinking?" Tony said, raising an eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Brunch first. Then some recreational activities, if you're up for it."

Tony got up, pulling her with him. "Sounds like a plan, Miss Potts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song whose lyrics I quoted at the beginning of the chapter is called "Sound the Bugle" by Bryan Adams and is one of this story's two theme songs. The other is "Carry On Wayward Son".
> 
> Almost forgot to post today - oops :)


	22. James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man,  
> Though my mind could think I still was a mad man,  
> I hear the voices when I'm dreaming,  
> I can hear them say...  
> Carry on my wayward son,  
> There'll be peace when you are done.  
> Lay your weary head to rest,  
> Don't you cry no more." - Kansas, Carry On Wayward Son

Steve didn't wake up for a few hours after they arrived back at the Tower, mostly because he'd been anesthetized during that time so that Bruce and Jemma could safely deal with his wounds. So when he finally opened his eyes with a groan, he was somewhat surprised to realize that his pain levels had gone down slightly (which was all he ever hoped for anyway) and that his shirt was gone.

"This keeps happening," Sam said from his right, and Steve turned his head to give his friend a pained smile.

"Hey, Sam."

"You wanna sit up a bit?"

"Sure."

Sam grabbed a remote from a nearby table, and Steve's bed started leaning upward. He winced at the adjustment and felt gingerly at his face with the tips of his fingers. The slice on his cheek had been bandaged, and thankfully the swelling above his eye had gone down. Unfortunately, he had apparently had his nose broken. That happened to him far too often.

"How is everyone?" he asked, peering at his torso and legs to catalogue his injuries.

"Worried about you," Sam said. "But otherwise fine."

"And Bucky?"

"Confused. But he's worried too. Had a flashback when he saw you and has been extra quiet and withdrawn ever since."

"Excuse me, Captain Rogers," JARVIS said, sounding amused. "But there are two people here to see you."

Steve grinned, although he also felt a bit embarrassed, lying there weak and injured as he was. "Let them in."

The first visitor was fairly expected; Tony, looking incredibly concerned but obviously trying to hide it. The second was a surprise that made Steve grin happily (which unfortunately made him wince a moment later).

"Thor!"

"Captain Rogers." The Asgardian prince smiled broadly. "I heard you were injured and had to come and see if you were alright."

"Yeah, I'm fine, Thor. It's good to see you," Steve said. He turned his attention to Tony. "Thanks for getting me out, Stark."

"Don't get used to it, Cap," Tony grumbled. "You weigh a ton and you got blood all over my new suit."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Wow. In that case I take it back. What happened to Rumlow?"

"He's locked under the Tower. I have a few maximum security holding cells down there, and Rumlow's in one." Tony's smile was fierce. "He's a little worse for the wear."

Steve was ashamed to feel a thrill of dark satisfaction at that idea. "You sure he can't get out?"

"Positive. And security's been doubled everywhere else throughout and around the Tower, so no one's going to break him out, either."

"Good. Um, one more thing… Does Bucky know who…?"

"No. Natasha just said Hydra," Tony said. "I think we all know that telling Bucky about his long-lost boss being in our basement would be a bad idea."

Steve nodded. There was no telling how Bucky would handle news like that. He might snap again.

"We have Goldilocks mostly updated on Barnes," Tony said. "But we left the sharing and caring part for you to talk about." He turned to go, then stopped and glanced back. "And hey, if you need anything, tell JARVIS and he'll get it for you. Don't worry about price or inconvenience or whatever, either. You just got tortured, so maybe pamper yourself a little. Does wonders to help you avoid thinking about it." From Tony's dry smile, it was obvious that he knew that from experience.

Sam frowned thoughtfully at the closed door, then sighed and glanced curiously at Thor. "So are you gonna introduce me to your blond, beefy friend or do I have to play 'guess the superhero'?"

"Oh, right, sorry. Thor, this is my friend Sam Wilson. Sam, this is Thor."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Son of Will," Thor declared, holding a hand out across the hospital bed to Sam.

Sam snorted but shook Thor's hand. "I don't get what it is with you big blond guys and your super muscles," he said, shaking his head. "But glad to meet you, Thor."

The demigod smiled and nodded politely. "What is the 'sharing and caring' Stark spoke of?" he asked.

Steve didn't feel like going into detail; it was his business, not Thor's. So he just shrugged. "He was my best friend before all this."

Thor frowned (he could probably tell that Steve was leaving things out), but he didn't press for more information. "I see." He leaned back in his seat, and Sam started asking him whether or not various Norse myths were true. Thor was indignant at most of the questions, which would have been very amusing only Steve was very tired and sleep sounded like a good idea at the moment.

Rumlow's cell was empty except for a table (which he was cuffed to) and a chair, neither of which he could move. It was too bright and white; it hurt his eyes after a while.

So far he had no plans; his men could probably get him out eventually, and he wasn't overly worried about torture. Although things hadn't gone as he'd hoped, he wasn't exactly surprised, either. He was that much closer to his asset now, which was what mattered. He just needed to be able to get within hearing range.

Then it would all be easy.

* * *

The Soldier was, fortunately, entirely unaware of the man locked in the basement and was instead focusing on what he thought was his new favorite food: plums. He'd been digging through the fridge (because he was hungry and tired of sitting around) and had found some round, dark purple fruit that smelled good. He'd spent a few minutes debating how one was supposed to eat it, then finally just taken a bite.

It was juicy and sweet and messy and _delicious_. He didn't know what it was, but he smiled slightly and kept eating it because it was good.

"Whatcha got there?" It was the archer, the hard-faced one. The Soldier paused, a familiar twinge of worry making him stiffen. Then he glanced at the fruit and shrugged.

"I don't know."

The archer sauntered closer. "Oh, you got one of the plums." He grinned. "Those are great, right?"

The Soldier shrugged again. "Sure."

"I don't think we've really talked before," said the other man, leaning back against the counter and pulling open a drawer to retrieve a chopstick, which he spun idly between his fingers. "I'm Clint."

The Soldier nodded and took another bite of his plum. Names were strange. He didn't understand why everyone had multiple names, why sometimes people called Captain Rogers "Cap" but other times they called him "Steve" or "Rogers". And Stark, the technician, confused him even more, with the weird names he gave everyone. So he was glad that the archer told him just one name. That was simple enough to remember and manage.

"What should I call you?" Clint prompted, raising an eyebrow.

The Soldier blinked. He wasn't sure. Everyone else just called him what they wanted to, which didn't bother him. Did he want to be called anything?

He had a lot of names too, he realized. Kiryanov, Bucky, Soldier, Asset, Sergeant James Barnes. He wasn't sure he liked any of them because he didn't know what they meant. The names Hydra gave him made him feel cold and worthless, but the names Rogers and Natalia had for him were still too confusing.

"I… I don't know," he said, carefully. When people called him James Barnes it didn't bother him. The museum and Jarvis called him that. "I guess… James?" he finally decided.

"Sounds cool." Clint grinned and tossed the chopstick into the air, catching it and stashing it back in the drawer. "You doing okay?"

That question was hard too, but the Soldier didn't mind. It was something to think about besides Rogers lying injured on the hospital bed. "I… don't think so," he said slowly. "I'm worried about the Captain. And I…" He gave Clint a long look. The archer was listening closely, grey eyes understanding, if a bit guarded. "I am confused."

"The brainwashing, right?" Clint tapped the side of his head, nodding. "Makes things fuzzy?"

James blinked, surprised. "Yeah."

"Figured. I got brainwashed a while back – well, more accurately, I got mind-controlled by this creepy-ass guy who attacked us. So I know… It can be hard to tell what's real."

That felt good. James smiled a little, suddenly relieved, although he didn't know why. He'd thought this confusion was his and his only, but Clint knew. Clint knew what it felt like. He finished eating his plum, thinking, half-forgetting that the archer was even there.

"Do you…" He looked up several minutes later. "Do you ever want to be brainwashed again? Because it was easier?"

Clint frowned and looked down. "No."

James almost wished he understood why Clint said that with such certainty; he thought maybe he was supposed to know. But it had been easier when he was brainwashed. Easier to think, easier to function, easier to know what to do.

Just then there was a loud crack of thunder that had him dropping into combat stance, eyes darting around because that wasn't natural. Clint was startled too, but he grinned.

"You can chill, James," he said. "That's just one of our teammates."

Sure enough, within a few minutes, a broad-shouldered, boisterous blond man strode into the kitchen. He was wearing a maroon hoodie and jeans, and he hefted a war hammer in his right hand. "Barton!" he called, setting the hammer down on the floor with a clank and coming over to them. "Good to see you again!"

"You too, big guy." Clint winced as the newcomer shook his hand, and James frowned. "Ease up on the grip, please."

"Oh, sorry." The blond man let go and glanced over at James. "Who's this?"

"Thor, this is Sergeant James Barnes. James, this is Thor. He's an alien."

Well, that was new. James didn't offer his hand to shake.

"Nice to meet you, James," Thor boomed. Then he looked back at Clint. "I'm here to see Steven; I heard he was hurt. And I've been hearing about him, too." He nodded at James.

"Oh yeah. You might wanna talk to Nat before you see Steve; she'll get you caught up."

"Thank you, Barton." Thor turned and strode away, holding out a hand. The hammer flew off the floor and into his hand, and the Soldier flinched.

Someone new to keep track of. And someone who was, potentially, very dangerous.

Clint glanced at him after the alien left. "You good?"

James shrugged. "I guess."

"Cool."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two milestones were reached for Bucky this time around: 1, he named himself, and 2, he made a friend! Yayyy! (Although I'm sure he wouldn't describe it that way himself.)
> 
> Please review!


	23. Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it's our job to invent something better." - Chuck Palahniuk

Clint ended up putting on a movie (Bourne Legacy) and sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. James joined him not long after, holding another plum and a glass of milk precariously between his fingers. The movie interested him, but it was confusing and very unsettling in some aspects.

Natalia padded into the room about halfway through the film, silent as ever. She went into the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and grabbed a banana out of the fridge. "You guys gonna go see Steve?" she asked, pausing on her way back out.

Clint shrugged. "I don't know. Probably. Is anyone else down there?"

"Not anymore. Sam is taking a nap and I don't know what Thor's doing. This stuff is for him though."

"You want to, James?" Clint asked, glancing over at him.

The Soldier shrugged and eyed his half-eaten plum. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see Rogers again, particularly if he still looked as terrible as he had before, but maybe it wouldn't be too bad. And he thought he was supposed to want to see him, so he nodded slowly.

Clint pushed himself off the couch with an exaggerated groan and waited for James to get up also and swallow back the last of his water. "You good?" he asked.

"Yeah." James nodded once and followed the archer and Natalia out of the living room.

As they got into the elevator and it began moving, James did as he always did and focused on his breathing, controlling the discomfort and nerves that always came with being trapped in such a small space.

Thor was talking animatedly to Rogers when Natalia pushed open the door to the med bay and Clint poked his head in. "Hey Steve," he said, grinning.

The Captain glanced over with an answering smile. "Hey."

Clint walked into the room, but James hesitated. He wasn't sure he belonged in there, wasn't sure he knew what he was supposed to do. But Clint nodded reassuringly. "Come on, man." So the Soldier mastered himself and walked through the door, unconsciously keeping his steps silent.

Rogers looked better now; he was bandaged and sitting up. "Oh, hey! Bucky. Are you okay?"

Natalia snorted and rolled her eyes, plopping down to sit on the side of the bed. "Is he okay? Out of you two, which one of you is A, lying on a hospital bed and B, entirely too protective?"

"Okay, okay. But seriously, Buck, are you alright?"

"It's… I'm…" James paused, thinking. Natalia had said she'd talk to Rogers about his name, but it didn't seem that she had. And Clint, Clint had asked what he should call the Soldier. Although it had never occurred to him before, he had a right to name himself. He had a right to decide who he was. "I'm James," he said quickly.

Rogers raised an eyebrow, but he didn't look upset, just intrigued. He glanced at Clint, then back at James. "Okay, cool."

"And what about you, Steve, how's being an invalid?" Clint said, striding over to pull up a chair and sit down. James fidgeted awkwardly by the door, digging his right hand deep into the pocket of his sweatpants.

"It's nice." Rogers snorted and seemed about to say something else, then shook his head slightly. "I'm tired though."

"I bet. How long you gotta stay in here?"

Natalia answered for him. "Bruce says maybe one or two weeks. Depends; the super soldier serum can be pretty unpredictable. He also says that if Steve tries to talk any of us into helping him do things before Bruce says he can, we're supposed to tie him to the bed so he can't get up."

Rogers laughed. "Great. I guess I'm stuck for a while."

James ended up ignoring their talking to think – and to take a few more bites of the plum that he still held. Being left out of conversations didn't bother him; he had difficulty navigating their complexities, and every time someone asked him a question, he had to remind himself that he was allowed to answer and allowed to express opinions. So being silent was easier.

His left shoulder ached, hollow and cold, and he grimaced, shrugging uncomfortably as if that might help. Then he ate the last of his plum and pocketed the sticky pit, licking his fingers clean so he could rub fractiously at the muscle. It had been easier to ignore pain before, when he had been convinced that he wasn't human. When all he had was his missions and Hydra. But it wasn't easy thinking about them, because his memories didn't agree on how he ought to feel about them and he still didn't always know what was brainwashing and what were his own thoughts.

A few things he knew for certain now, though, and when he got more confused, he repeated them to himself over and over again. He was a person. He was James Buchanan Barnes. He knew Rogers and Natalia. And, most recently, he was supposed to protect Rogers.

"Hey, James," – and the Soldier snapped his gaze up, hand going still where it held his shoulder – "you spaced out." The Captain was smiling again, the expression crooked, but in a familiar way that made James' head hurt with a dozen fuzzy memories.

"Yeah." He pushed a stray strand of greasy hair out of his face and shrugged. "Not good at talking."

"It's all good," Rogers said with a nod. "Did you ever get introduced to Thor, or…?"

"I met him." And the Soldier wasn't particularly fond of him, either. But then, people in general were difficult. He could read them, could guess who they were and what they did, could find their weak points, but "normal" things like talking and names and handshakes and trust… he couldn't do any of those things. And it was painful, almost, the way he stumbled over words and was confused by simple questions, especially around someone like Clint, who made everything look easy.

"Good."

James nodded vaguely, busy thinking again. What even was he anymore? A person, yes, but it was more complicated than that. Because he was a weapon, too, with protocols and rules in his head that governed everything he did. He hadn't used to be that way; his memories told him that he had been very different once. Sometimes he wanted to be that person again, the person that Rogers knew. But he didn't remember how.

Clint snorted and elbowed him. "Hey, you zoned out again. It's fine if you're bored and wanna leave."

James hesitated, but Rogers waved a hand. "I'm fine, Buck– James," he said. So the Soldier let out a tiny sigh of relief and made his way back out of the med bay to go to his suite.

He grabbed his notebook first and, lying on his stomach on the bed, scribbled down his latest memories, including his flashback from earlier. He realized, with a surge of frustration, that he was running out of pages for everything he needed to keep track of. He could get another journal, probably, but he liked this one, liked the way the cover and paper felt.

"Jarvis, would I be able to get another notebook?" he asked, trying to sketch the tents and crowds of people from the fair in his flashback. He was no artist, but some memories were so vivid that he had to at least attempt to draw them.

"I believe so," the British voice said calmly. James liked Jarvis, whoever Jarvis was; the man was calm and didn't seem to expect conversation.

"Why don't I ever see you?" he said, drawing a series of straight lines for the Ferris wheel. He wasn't entirely sure what the point of a Ferris wheel was; his memory on fairs was patchy. Oddly, he felt as if remembering fairs was important, but then, he'd discovered that sometimes, remembering little details felt the most human.

The voice was warmly amused when it answered. "I'm afraid that's not possible, Sergeant Barnes. I don't have a physical form; as a matter of fact, I'm merely an artificial intelligence that Mr. Stark created."

James blinked and looked up from his project. "So you aren't real?"

"I am real, but I'm not a human, if that's what you mean."

James thought about it, and it made sense, suddenly. That explained why Jarvis always knew everything and heard everyone; the man wasn't a man at all but a piece of computer software. He filed that information away for later. "I see."

After scribbling some shading on the tents, he snapped the journal shut and tossed it lazily across the room, worrying his lips with his teeth. He was tired and didn't know what else to do, so he adjusted himself to lie curled up on his side and closed his eyes. He fell asleep within just a few minutes.

* * *

"How'd you get him to call himself James?" Steve asked, as soon as Bucky was out of sight.

Clint snorted, grinning. "He was getting food in the kitchen, and I just introduced myself. Asked him what I should call him. And we kinda watched a movie together and stuff, and we talked a bit about getting our heads screwed with. Real bonding time."

"That's good, I guess." Steve couldn't stop a slight twinge of jealousy that it was Clint who'd gotten Bucky to make that choice for himself, but mostly he was excited about it. Of course, the old Bucky hated being called James, but Steve knew it wasn't fair to expect things to be the same. No matter how much he wished they could be.

"Yeah." Clint hesitated, looking down at his knees, and Steve smiled a little.

"There's more you wanna say."

"Yeah, actually." The archer glanced at Nat, as if for support, then spoke. "Look, Cap… You've got a lot of expectations riding on James' shoulders. I know you don't mean to, I know it's hard, and I think if I was in your place, I'd do the same as you are. But you're expecting him to remember everything and turn back into your best friend, and after what he's been through, he's not gonna be the same. Ever."

Steve looked down, gritting his teeth. Of course, Clint was right. That didn't make it any easier to hear.

"I know he was your best friend, but you have to try to let that go. He needs to work out who he is now, and if that's not Bucky Barnes, you need to be okay with that." Clint's face was stern but sympathetic.

"I know," Steve said lamely, swallowing. It was just so hard. Every time he looked at Bucky, that was who he saw. Bucky. And immediately a thousand memories would fill his head, whether he wanted them to or not.

And God help him, that hurt worse than anything else.

"Hey." Natasha nudged his arm lightly with her elbow. "It's okay, Steve. You're doing your best."

He nodded slowly. "I guess, I just… I can't help it."

"You're going to have to at least act like you can help it," she said gently. Steve grumbled quietly under his breath, rolling his eyes, and she laughed at him. "Don't be such a baby, Rogers."

"I'm not being a baby!" he protested, but the complaining probably hadn't helped his case much, because Natasha just raised an eyebrow at him. "And anyway, if I am, I have a lot of good reasons to be."

"Touché," she snorted. "Drink your water."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, yes. I remember this chapter. Everythign was so nice.... and happy... and everyone is getting better.....
> 
> *distant maniacal laughter*
> 
> Ahem. I mean, everything only gets better from here, don't worry.
> 
> Round of applause for Selective scifi junkie (FF.net) for betaing for me all the time! Thank you and I love you, Techno!
> 
> Please review!


	24. Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning in case you peeps haven't been paying attention to the tags: Victim meeting abuser, Stockholm syndrome, trigger words, emotional manipulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All he had to do was say the goddamn words." - Bucky Barnes

Over the next few weeks, James began to feel that something was wrong around the tower. It was nothing major, really, but he was fairly sure that the Avengers were keeping a secret from him. He could tell on the rare occasions when he visited Rogers and the conversation would stop as he opened the door, he could tell by the way Natalia or Clint disappeared for a few hours every day and came back from wherever they'd been silent and grim. He didn't ask about this, because he wasn't sure he should, and anyway, he knew they wouldn't tell him. He might not know a lot about normal interactions, but he knew lies and secrets and deception.

He tried asking Jarvis what was going on, but the artificial intelligence gave him a noncommittal answer about dealing with the Hydra agent responsible for Rogers' torture, an answer that only raised more questions. James hated not knowing what was going on, but he wasn't sure how to find out without getting caught. So he buried his frustration and kept his thoughts to himself, watching the team narrowly to pick up whatever he could about what was going on. Unfortunately, after asking Jarvis about the issues, the Avengers got more careful, acting normally again.

Rogers was up and walking around after about a week, although gingerly, and the others kept making him sit down and rest. This seemed to irritate him immensely, and James almost found it funny the way he'd argue with Natalia, telling her that he was fine and asking why everyone couldn't just give him space. She always ignored his complaints, bossing him around until he did what she told him to.

Rogers also took to watching movies with Clint and Natalia on a regular basis, and James found himself lingering nearby, usually leaning silently against the wall or sitting on the dining room table. He didn't quite understand the appeal of movies, but he did like the feeling of being near people without having to interact with them. He liked watching how easily they talked, teasing each other, sometimes sitting close, sometimes being strangely childish and throwing food at each other. He didn't understand any of it, but he wished he did.

And yet he kept his distance, not just because he felt uncomfortable, but because he didn't quite trust them. They were keeping something from him, after all. So he hung back and watched the team like a hawk watching its prey, because asking them what was going on wasn't an option.

As it turned out, he probably should have bitten the bullet and asked anyway.

* * *

Carter was just an engineer. He'd never managed to work his way into a more interesting field; apparently he wasn't smart enough or strong enough. Of course, he was doing important things, but he wanted to be more useful, more involved. Never mind that he already knew things that most Hydra agents didn't.

So when Gideon Malik, of all people, approached him while he was trying to figure out how Avengers Tower's security worked, he was half-convinced he was dreaming.

Malik had just taken over the leadership of Hydra. As a former member of the World Security Council and a highly-respected businessman, he'd been the ideal choice for Hydra's new leader. Or so Carter had been told, anyway. He didn't much care who led as long as they stayed true to Hydra's core values.

Malik had dead, dark eyes like the eyes of a shark. "Agent Halloway, right?"

"Yes sir." Carter snapped to attention and gave the Hydra salute. He swallowed nervously when Malik laughed, but the Director seemed to be thinking about something else.

"You were a member of Brock Rumlow's little following, if memory serves."

"Yes sir." Carter was immediately on the alert; he wasn't sure where Malik was going with this at all. Rumlow hadn't been trying for the leadership, but with the rather large group of both recruits and seasoned agents he'd gathered around himself, it probably looked like he had been. "Why, sir?"

"I want to know what he was doing. He wasn't reporting to anyone, so no one knew what his goals were, except his followers. He was captured by the Avengers a few days ago, so I'm sure you can understand why I need to know." His voice was low and almost lazy, with a soft, sleepy quality that made it sound as if he was trying to keep from being overheard. Still, it carried authority that made Carter's back straighten involuntarily. "I'd prefer to know his plans before the Avengers do."

Carter hesitated. "All due respect, sir… I don't think Rumlow will break so easily."

"But he will break. The Black Widow isn't considered the greatest agent SHIELD ever had for nothing. Your loyalty is to Hydra, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course!" Carter nodded emphatically. It was, and god forbid anyone think it wasn't. He took a deep breath. "We were trying to find the Winter Soldier and get him back." Malik raised an eyebrow, apparently interested. Carter went on, his confidence bolstered. "Rumlow was second in command under Pierce, but mostly that only applied to the Winter Soldier program. A lot of us who worked with him had been involved with the program in some way, so we were happy to help. But then when we tried to get him back from the Avengers, things went wrong."

"Why do we need the Winter Soldier?" Malik asked. "We have a large number of other assets; what's so special about that one?"

Carter almost laughed, but that wouldn't have come across well, so he just smiled a little. "You have read the files, right?" he said. "More successful missions than any other Hydra asset or agent, completely obedient. He was the perfect tool for intimidation or torture or assasination - hell, he could do just about anything."

Malik nodded slowly. "What about the other Winter Soldiers? Don't we still have them?"

Carter shrugged. "I don't know. But apparently none of them were as easy to control, and none of them were as successful as the original Soldier, so even if we did..." He trailed off meaningfully.

"I see." Malik nodded, dead eyes calculating. "In that case, Agent Halloway, I'm putting you in charge of retrieving Rumlow."

That was so unexpected that Carter couldn't answer for a minute, busy panicking over how to do that and Malik trusting him with an assignment and what was basically a promotion. "Not to sound ungrateful, sir," he said carefully. "But I don't even know how to begin to do that."

The director laughed humorlessly. "I'm not telling you to do it alone, Agent. Just get it done."

Carter nodded, swallowed, and waited until Malik walked away to get back to work, in earnest now. This was his big break. He couldn't screw up now.

* * *

It was three weeks after Rogers' capture and subsequent rescue when James finally figured out what the Avengers were keeping from him... in the worst possible way.

It was early afternoon, just after a lunch of frozen pizzas and soda. Rogers was doing careful exercises in the gym under Natalia's supervision. Clint was watching Food Network Star. Stark had left in his metal suit, and occasionally James could see him flying around the city. He wasn't sure where everyone else was, but he didn't really care, either. He was busy writing in his notebook again. He'd had a particularly brutal flashback that morning, one that he still hadn't entirely recovered from. It was humiliating how shaken he still was because of the memory, but every time he thought about it, he felt _wrong, dirty, sick_. So he dug his pen down little too hard as he wrote in his journal and tried his best to compartmentalize it, as he sometimes had to with the bad things.

Everything seemed to be going fine. It was a normal day, or as normal as they got. The Soldier didn't feel anything wrong. There was no warning before everything electronic in the building flickered and went dark.

James and Clint both jumped to their feet at the same time, and the archer quickly drew a gun from the waistband of his jeans, eyes hard. James wished desperately for a weapon; his heart rate had picked up dramatically, adrenaline rushing through him. He controlled it, pushed it down.

"They're here for me," he realized suddenly. But Clint shook his head.

"Not you this time."

James didn't ask what he meant, instead striding over to the agent, peering out the window. He couldn't see anyone out of the ordinary, just the construction crews... The construction crews. He nodded to himself. Hydra had infiltrated them, of course.

"Wait here, James," Clint said. "I'm gonna go check things out."

James shook his head. "Who are they here for?" he asked carefully. "If it isn't me, then who is it?"

Clint hesitated, and James knew before he opened his mouth that he was going to lie, so he just growled in frustration and headed for the stairwell. The Tower had two main sets of stairs going down: one set made of glass and steel that made James nervous, and one by the elevator that was a lot less fancy. There were too many windows up here; it wasn't safe.

"James, hang on!" Clint followed him, but the Soldier ignored him. It wasn't safe, Hydra was here, and whether they'd come for him or not didn't much matter. They had come, and they would find him. And he didn't want to think about what would happen if and when they did. "James, I have to tell you something. It's important."

James stopped on the stairs and turned around with a frustrated scowl. "What?" he ground out.

"They're not here for you because they're here for Rumlow," the archer said firmly, but there was wariness in his grey-green eyes. James had to fight to keep his expression neutral. "We had him locked up under the Tower, although I guess he probably isn't there anymore. So please, just wait up here. We can probably find him and keep him contained, but I don't want you to run into him."

James stared at Clint for a long minute, trying to decide what to do. Did he trust Clint? He thought he did, at least a little. "Fine," he snapped, heading back up the stairs. He would wait, yes, but not for long.

Back in the kitchen, he tugged open drawer after drawer, trying to find the knives. The Avengers wouldn't let him know where they were (a good tactical decision), but he needed them now.

Rumlow was here. He didn't know what to think about that; for now he was just trying not to think. Stark was probably back from his flight by now, as long as Jarvis hadn't been disabled along with the rest of the Tower's technology.

He finally found the knives in a high cabinet, and proceeded to test each of them. They were all kept sharp, and he picked one with a good balance and a long smooth edge, then leaned against the counter where he had a good view of the stairs. If only he had his arm back.

For a few minutes, everything was still. Then three things happened at once. First, the lights flickered back on. Second, a thunderous roar erupted from somewhere below his floor. And third, a moment later, Rumlow and a small strike team appeared at the top of the stairs, Natalia and Clint right behind them.

James gripped his knife tight and backed up towards the fridge, half hoping that Clint and Natalia would get rid of Rumlow, half hoping they wouldn't and he could leave with the specialist, an idea which simultaneously terrified him and comforted him.

Rumlow peeled off from his strike team and headed for James immediately. He had a swelling bruise on one scarred cheek. "Easy, Soldier," he said, holding out a hand.

James glanced at the two Avengers. They were running towards himself and Rumlow, but the strike team engaged them, keeping them from getting to him. They would win, he could tell, but how quickly?

"Hey, eyes on me."

James obeyed automatically, trying to read Rumlow. But as always, it was a futile effort, and he lifted the knife, a flimsy barrier between himself and the Hydra specialist.

"Put that down, Soldier. You don't need it."

"You brainwashed me," James managed, adjusting his grip on the weapon to hide the way his hands shook.

"You really think that's what we did to you? Would _I_ do that to you, Soldier?"

The Asset swallowed. "I don't know." Rumlow looked betrayed, and James wanted to apologize, wanted to fix this. "I mean... They said you did, and it felt like maybe-"

"You believed them?"

It sounded stupid now, the Soldier thought. But he shook his head, keeping the knife up. "I know them," he said. "I remember things. I'm a person."

"You, a person?" Rumlow laughed, and James felt himself shrinking, small and humiliated. "You're a weapon, Soldier, not a person. You've been gone too long and you're malfunctioning."

"Kiryanov, don't listen!" Natalia yelled. He glanced up. The strike team was down, mostly, but Natalia and Clint were still fighting an agent who had a knife.

"You look at me, Soldier," Rumlow ordered, and James did as he was told. Like he always did. "We're going."

The Asset gulped, shook his head. "I can't." He was pleading, he realized, because Rumlow of all people had to understand. "I remember things, I remember they brainwashed me. I can't go back. I can't. Please let me stay."

Rumlow's brown eyes went hard, angry, disappointed, and the Soldier cringed. He hated disappointing Rumlow. "You're overstepping your bounds, Asset. I'm your handler now, and you answer to me."

"But-" That was the wrong thing to say. Rumlow was frustrated now, expression grim.

" _Longing._ " The Russian word hurt James' ears, and he whimpered.

"Don't do that," he pleaded. He'd forgotten about the trigger words. They'd make him go back, and he didn't want to. He couldn't.

" _Rusted. Seventeen."_

It was painfully familiar, the way his knees hit the floor as he threaded his hands behind his head.

"Stop! James!" Clint's voice was panicked, and James started to move, to look at him, but Rumlow listed off the next few words in quick succession.

" _Daybreak. Furnace. Nine._ "

Running footsteps. Was the Soldier supposed to remember who they belonged to? Rumlow was watching him carefully, still talking. " _Benign._ "

"Leave him the hell alone!" The archer (what was his name? The Asset thought he should know) tackled Rumlow from the side, fist connecting solidly with his scarred jaw, and the Soldier flinched. He was supposed to protect Rumlow. The specialist would be disappointed in him if he didn't, and that was bad. But he didn't think he wanted to hurt the archer either, so he dropped his knife and grabbed at the agent's arms, hauling the shorter man away from Rumlow. But then Natalia was there, ripping the archer out of his grip and covering the Soldier's ears with her hands. She was saying something in Russian too, loud and insistent. " _Focus, Kiryanov. Stay with me._ " He struggled half-heartedly, nervous. She pulled him away from where Rumlow was fighting the archer, and he growled something wordless. He had to go back and help. But Natalia wouldn't let him, her hands firm on his arm and shoulder.

And then suddenly Captain Rogers was at the top of the stairs too, moving weakly but determinedly, and that grounded the Soldier a bit. "Bucky, are you okay?" he asked.

"No, he's not. Keep him with you, I'm going to go help Clint." Natalia darted away, a flash of red.

The Captain was holding him tight, hand around his arm, and the Soldier felt uncomfortable, trapped.

Rumlow managed to pull away from the two agents fighting him, bellowing a trigger word in Russian and following it up with an order in English. "Help me, damn it!"

The Soldier reflexively tried to rip his arm out of the Captain's grip, but the man didn't let go, so the Soldier fought free. It was easy: a strike with his elbow to Captain Rogers' still-injured ribs and a shove, once his arm was free, to knock him to the floor.

He barely had to think. He was handicapped without his arm, but he knew that the Avengers didn't want to kill him, while he had no such inhibitions. He grabbed Natalia by the throat, flinging her away from Rumlow.

"Bucky, stop!"

He did, instinctually, glancing back. Captain Rogers got to his feet, grimacing. Rumlow was up now too, panting. _"One,"_ he gritted out. The Soldier flinched, moving closer to him, automatically dropping into a defensive stance.

"Bucky, come on, listen-"

The Soldier focused on the Captain, fist clenched. He made note of Clint and Natalia circling himself and Rumlow, but didn't look at them.

_"Freight car."_

"Shut the hell up, Rumlow," Natalia said, low and fierce. There was a low crackling sound, and then the Asset did turn to face her. Her knives were shimmering blue with electricity.

The Soldier gritted his teeth and moved in between her and Rumlow, because currently she was more dangerous than Captain Rogers.

As soon as he'd shifted, there was a rush of sound like a small jet engine, and he spun around just in time to see Stark, in his metal suit, shoot a bolt of white light at Rumlow.

He didn't have time to get in the way, didn't have time to save him. He just howled and caught Rumlow's body as it fell, panicking. He'd failed his mission. They were going to kill him. Oh god. He'd failed. Rumlow was _dead._

He looked up glaring, furious, and then something pulsed out from the metal suit's gauntlet and his head hurt and it happened again and he fell, stunned. He struggled to get back up, but Stark growled something like "stay down" and a shockwave hit the Soldier again and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you all get to wait till Tuesday for what happens neeeext. *evil laugh*
> 
> The trigger words are those related by Captain America: Civil War. Italics are, as usual, words in other languages.
> 
> Please review!


	25. Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another trigger warning, in case y'all still aren't reading the tags: aftermath of victim meeting abuser, self-hatred, aftermath of abuse (sort of), etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day." - Markus Zusak

His head hurt. For a moment that was all he knew, the screaming ache behind his temples. He didn't open his eyes for a long time, taking in what he could from his other senses. He was restrained by his arm, waist, and legs, but not too tight. Still, he had to regulate his breathing to keep from panicking.

What had happened? It was weighing on him: something had gone wrong earlier, but his head hurt too much to decipher it, so he carefully forced his eyes open.

For a moment, the light was too bright, and he hissed a breath and squinted, waiting for his vision to adjust. When it finally did, he took another moment to register where he was and what he was looking at.

He was in a hospital room much like Rogers' had been, clean and white and neat. The only difference seemed to be the restraints and the distinct lack of other people. He craned his neck to have a look at himself. He wasn't hurt, at least not really, but he was hooked up to a number of machines that seemed to be monitoring his vitals and brain activity and half a dozen other details.

Things were coming back to him now, slow and painful like frozen razors scraping at him. Rumlow. Rogers. Stark. He let out a long groan and closed his eyes, head dropping back onto the pillow. What the hell had he done? His brain was working overdrive again, trying to sort out the mess of emotions he felt, but with little luck. He'd hurt Rogers. He'd failed Rumlow. Both of those things were so jarring that he lost control of his steady breathing for a moment, his breath hitching painfully in his chest. Shit. How had any of that happened? Why had he screwed up so badly? And Rumlow was dead. Hell, that was so wrong. He couldn't even think about that. It was his job to protect them both, and he'd failed in every possible way. At least Rogers was okay, but Rumlow... He didn't know how to think about that, didn't know whether he even ought to feel this guilty. Rumlow had used the trigger words on him, had tried to make him go back. But he was still the only person in Hydra that took care of the Soldier. Sure, he wasn't kind to James like Rogers was, but then James had never deserved kindness. What Rumlow gave him was the best he could get, and that was okay.

Until Rogers. Until here. They treated him like he was important.

If it hadn't been for his restraints, James would have curled in on himself, feeling sick. He didn't know what to think anymore, he didn't know who to listen to. Because he liked to feel good, he liked kindness, but he didn't deserve that. He wasn't supposed to have that.

And he'd killed Rumlow, as surely as if he'd fired the blast himself.

"Damn," he groaned, gritting his teeth, fighting against the panic that was threatening to set in. He strained against his bonds, not really aware of what he was doing. He just wanted to get away from his own thoughts, but he couldn't.

Finally someone came in; James went still and waited to see what happened, tense.

"Hey, James. You okay?" It was Stark. He sauntered into the Soldier's line of sight, looking perfectly groomed and comfortable except for the weariness in his eyes and the fact that his arm was in a sling.

James responded a terse question of his own, unwilling to answer Stark when he'd been the one to shoot Rumlow. "Where's Rogers?" By now he'd worked out that the Captain felt responsible for him, like he had to protect James the way James had to protect him, so his absence was suspicious.

"He wanted to come in," Stark answered. "But since you went all nuts and nailed his ribs pretty hard, he had to get fixed up. Plus he has trouble being objective when it comes to you. So I'm gonna ask you again, are you doing okay?"

James sneered a little, even as guilt washed hot through his veins. He hated that question, hated Stark, hated this conversation, and hated himself most of all. "Where's Rumlow?"

Stark scowled. "Not dead, unfortunately. But nearly. We're transferring him to government custody later today."

James felt a rush of relief so strong that a hysterical giggle forced its way out if his throat before he could stop it. Stark frowned, understandably concerned. But James couldn't control it then, the insane laughter, because this was the most screwed up situation ever and he hated Rumlow and he needed him and he'd be damned if he understood any of this shit.

"Hey, don't do that." The technician was suddenly awkward, glancing up at what was probably a camera. "A little help, guys?"

James heard Natalia talking, but he was laughing harder now, and he couldn't stop. It was just getting hard to breathe when Stark unbuckled his restraints, and James curled in on himself, laughter turning to heaving sobs that shook him. He didn't remember crying like this, not ever. But then, crying wasn't something he thought he would've let himself do before. And this, this was strange, because he felt almost like he wasn't really there. Like he was watching himself from a distance. He just felt sick and miserable and relieved and worthless, so he clung to his stomach and sobbed until someone was smoothing his hair out of his face with a strong, calloused hand and a deep voice was saying soothing, pointless things by his ear. He managed to regain control of himself then, dragging in several shaky breaths and carefully straightening, cringing a bit at what must surely have been a disgusting display on his part.

There was Rogers, looking (as usual) tired and a bit sad. James wasn't quite sure whether it was good or bad that the Captain was always there to see his breakdowns, but for the moment it just felt shameful, so he closed his eyes and buried his face in his pillow.

"Hey, it's okay, Bu- James."

James laughed again, short and harsh. "No, it's really not," he snapped, voice muffled. This wasn't even _close_ to okay.

"Alright, my bad, sorry." James could tell that Rogers wasn't really sure what to do or say. The bed dipped, meaning the Captain had probably taken a seat next to him. "He can't get to you again, though, I promise."

The frustrating thing was that James wasn't sure whether that phrase hurt him or freed him. "What if I want him to?" He needed an answer. What if he wanted Rumlow back? What if, despite everything he thought he was supposed to know at this point, he wanted things to be safe and familiar and easy? What did he do then?

But Rogers apparently misunderstood him, because all he said was, "God, James."

The Soldier didn't even have to look to know that the Captain would have that one expression on his face, the one where he looked like he was going to cry, punch something, hug him, or some combination of all three. The idea almost amused him, the predictability of Captain Rogers, so he forced himself to sit up, tugging his knees up to his chest and resting his chin against them.

Stark was sitting in one of the chairs in the room, looking a bit small and embarrassed. And, as expected, Rogers was sitting on the hospital bed next to James, his eyes swimming with emotion.

"Do I have to stay in here?" James asked carefully. He didn't want to be in this hospital room any longer than necessary; it felt too exposed and cold.

Rogers hesitated. "I don't know, I can't… Look, you just attacked me and all of us, so it's a bit of a tricky situation."

"I know."

Stark spoke up then, standing up from his chair as if to leave. "He seems to be back to his usual confused self, so it should be fine. We just need to keep a better eye on him."

"Okay. Can all this-" Rogers gestured to the sensors hooked up to James' arms "-be removed, or does Simmons have to do it, or…?"

Stark snorted and strode over, peeling away the sensors efficiently. "You're good to go now, Terminator."

James swung his legs out of bed and got up, gritting his teeth against a wave of dizziness. His head still hurt pretty badly, apparently a side effect of whatever Stark had used to knock him out. He steadied himself for a moment, then made his way to the door, sensing Rogers following him. It was only when he was halfway up the stairwell to his floor that he realized that the Captain planned to follow him the whole way. He stopped and turned around, right fist clenching automatically. "Leave me alone."

Rogers blinked, looking hurt for a brief moment before he nodded. "Sorry."

James looked down, almost apologized himself, then changed his mind and continued up the stairs.

His suite was warm and familiar, and at this point it was his safe place, the only place in the Tower where he felt as if he wasn't being watched. (Of course, he always was, but at least in his suite he could fall apart without people barging in to ask him stupid questions like "are you okay".

He didn't have his journal, and at the moment he didn't even want it. He went into the bathroom to take a shower, still feeling a bit sick. He scrubbed a bit too hard at his face (which felt hot and swollen from crying), and ended up sitting down on the floor of the shower, clinging to his knees again to anchor himself.

And then finally a flashback hit him, probably long overdue.

_Freezing cold. That was how he felt most of the time, like there was an ocean in his veins instead of blood. A part of him was fairly sure that wasn't how he was supposed to feel, but the Hydra doctors pronounced him "operational," so he kept being cold. That was fine. He could handle cold._

_He was being transferred, apparently. His handler spent most of the day reading the trigger words to him, giving him commands about how to act around the new people and new country. He was leaving Russia, which was a strange thought. He didn't remember ever having been anywhere else but Russia, but he was still going to be with Hydra, so that would be fine too._

_They restrained him during the flight to wherever they were going. They always did, although he was never quite sure why. Maybe it was just protocol. There were hundreds of rules regarding his use that he didn't even know about, but which were probably important. Not that he really cared._

_It was sunny and warm, wherever they took him. The Soldier blinked rapidly, uncomfortable, glancing around. They were in a hangar, which was still open to the sky for the moment. Dozens of state-of-the-art quinjets and other aircraft were lined up around them._

_"Soldat," snapped his handler, and he focused quickly, straightening to attention. "Eto vash novyy khozyain."_

_"Da ser." The man his handler was referring to was elderly, white haired, American. He wore a suit, and seemed unaccustomed to violence._

_"He can speak English, right? I don't have time to learn Russian."_

_The Asset made the language switch in his head easily. His new handler's voice was arrogant, entitled, commanding._

_"Yes, he is fluent in thirty languages, including your English."_

_"Good. Rumlow…"_

_A gruff-looking man (a man with a face used to cruelty, the Soldier decided) strode over and grabbed his right arm. "Come on," he growled._

_The Asset followed complacently. The man was being rough; he probably thought the Soldier would fight back._

_They had a cell ready for him. Cement, four walls, steel door. Metal slab that was probably supposed to be a bed. That wasn't too bad; he didn't get a bed in Russia._

_The man shoved him into the tiny space, or tried to; he wasn't strong enough to make the Soldier stumble, so he ended up standing back while the Soldier moved meekly into the cell and stood awaiting orders. He received none; instead the man just swore and slammed the steel door shut._

_The Asset remained standing for almost three hours before they finally came to get him and test how far his obedience would make him go._

_As they quickly discovered, there was no limit to what he would do for them, a fact that his handler (and the cruel-faced man from before) seemed quite eager to take advantage of._

_The Soldier wasn't sure why they were so surprised. His former handler probably just hadn't explained things very well._

James realized, as he regained awareness of himself, that the water of the shower had grown cold, so after pushing himself wearily to his feet and tilting his face under the chilly spray, he turned off the water and wandered back into his room, retrieving sweatpants and a soft, warm sweater from his closet.

Strangely, he couldn't stop shaking. The flashback (which had been so cold) and the shower hadn't helped him feel any better, and in fact had exhausted him even more. So he crawled into his bed, tugging the blanket and sheets up around him and closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to get warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post the new chapter yesterday! Sorry guys. Just for that, I'll post two today. :)
> 
> The Russian in this chapter is translated by Google translate, so if it's crappy (it's almost definitely crappy), my apologies. Translations:
> 
> Soldat, eto vash novyy khozyain = Soldier, this is your new master.
> 
> Da ser = Yes sir


	26. Ripples

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession, friendship is never anything but sharing." - Ellie Wiesel

"Come on, Bruce! Open up!" Tony rested his head against Bruce's suite door, huffing out a frustrated breath. "Seriously, man, I need some help with a project."

"May I suggest a different approach, sir?" JARVIS said, almost sarcastically. "I don't believe that your current tactic is doing much good."

"Shut up, JARVIS," Tony grumbled, but took the AI's advice anyway. He'd been trying to get Bruce to answer him for almost ten minutes now. "Don't be like that, Bruce. I'm sorry. Please let me in? I have shawarma!"

To his surprise, that actually worked; Bruce pulled open the door, peering out with a frustrated scowl on his face. One that barely masked the misery in his eyes. "What, Tony?" he sighed.

"I don't actually have shawarma, I just said that so you'd open the door," the genius admitted. "Do you need to talk or science or anything?"

Bruce smiled just a little. "No thanks. I'm fine."

Tony almost groaned in frustration, but that wouldn't be helpful, so he just nodded and oscillated in the doorway, not wanting to leave. "Can you come help me with the Avengers uniforms some more?"

"Not right now, Tony," Bruce said firmly but apologetically. "I need to get some sleep." He started to close the door, but Tony stuck his foot in the way.

"Nobody got hurt!"

"Nobody? Except you and Thor. And I nearly frightened the life out of Jemma."

"She's fine!" Tony protested. "She's tougher than she seems." He didn't add that if it wasn't for her bravery, the Hulk would probably still be running rampant around Manhattan.

Bruce nodded. "Yeah, I've noticed."

"Come on, Bruce, please?" Then Tony pulled out his trump card with a flourish. "Simmons is worried about you."

That did it, as he'd suspected it would, because he was totally a genius. Bruce let out a long sigh, obviously feeling guilty, and retreated inside. He returned a moment later, having put his hair and clothes in order and pulled on a pair of shoes. "You win, Tony," he mumbled. "But I really do need to get some sleep."

"And I really will get you shawarma. You need a lot of food after you Hulk out, remember?"

Bruce huffed an amused breath, and Tony sensed that that was the best he was going to get out of the scientist today.

Tony tried to make small talk as they took the elevator up to the common room, but Bruce was being disappointingly uncommunicative. Not that Tony could really blame him, but he hated silence and he especially hated silence when people were upset. He always felt like he was supposed to try to be comforting, and he wasn't good at that.

Simmons was seated at the bar, spinning absentmindedly on one of the stools. She didn't have a drink in front of her; she'd simply sat down the first available place after the incident earlier and refused the drink Tony suggested she take.

"Hey Jemma," Bruce said quietly, forcing a smile. The young woman spun around and hopped off the stool, hurrying over.

"Are you okay?" she asked, light brown eyes concerned. "I was so worried you might have gotten hurt when you changed back, with all the broken glass and chemicals and things."

Bruce looked stunned for a minute before managing to stammer, "Um, yeah… thank you for asking. I'm fine. What about you? Did I… he hurt you?"

Simmons shrugged and shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine too."

Tony smiled, proud of himself. If anybody could make Bruce feel better, it would be Simmons. Called it.

Apparently Bruce and Simmons had been working happily in the lab when Rumlow and his goons broke in and attacked them both. Bruce hadn't taken long to Hulk out, since he'd been getting in between the Hydra agents and Simmons whenever he could and had gotten badly injured. Or would have, if it weren't for the Hulk. Unfortunately, Bruce didn't see it that way; he was convinced that the "other guy" was nothing but a problem, never mind that he'd probably saved Simmons' life.

In the midst of the insanity, most of the science floor had been destroyed, an issue that Tony was already attempting to rectify.

Hulk had been unusually careful around Simmons. As Tony and Rhodey and Thor had worked to contain Hulk to one floor, they realized very quickly that he was not only aware of Simmons, but was actively avoiding her. And she apparently realized it too, because before they knew what was happening, she had gotten in between them and Hulk, holding out her hands like he was a wild animal, saying a bunch of stuff about how she respected him and thought he was nice and would he please calm down and strangely, the Hulk stopped and looked, really looked at her. That was just a few moments before he stumbled, shaking, and transformed back into Bruce.

Simmons was explaining the incident to Bruce now, somehow managing to make it sound like she hadn't done anything special and the Hulk really hadn't been a problem, which wasn't quite true but which was definitely what Bruce needed to hear.

"You're sure I didn't hurt you?" the biochemist asked anxiously.

"I promise you didn't. You kept me from getting hurt."

Bruce's weary face broke into a tentative smile, relief obvious in the way his back straightened and he finally met Simmons' eyes without flinching. In a moment he was serious again, although now with more purpose than before. "We need to make sure they can't compromise our defenses like that again. What'd they use?"

"EMP. Pretty large-scale. A few members of the construction crew apparently snuck it in amongst other equipment. We've arrested as many of them as we can and they're under questioning." Tony still couldn't believe that Hydra agents had gotten past his background checks and brought in an EMP. He needed to reevaluate his security measures, majorly.

Bruce nodded. "We should start working on this now. We can't afford another break-in like that."

"Well, first we need to have dinner," Tony said, waving his hand dismissively.

"I've ordered shawarma for everyone except Sergeant Barnes" JARVIS informed him immediately. "He asked if he was allowed to come to dinner."

"Of course he is. Find out what he wants and order it." Tony _wasn't_ feeling guilty that this had happened to Barnes, and he absolutely wasn't feeling guilty for shooting Rumlow. And he _definitely_ wasn't seeing Barnes' horrified face as Tony shot Rumlow every time he closed his eyes. At least, he shouldn't be. Rumlow deserved whatever he got, the bastard, and it wasn't like Barnes actually cared about the Hydra agent. Still, it had frightened him how the former assassin had responded to hearing that Rumlow wasn't really dead. What had they done to him? Did it matter? Could they even fix it? Answers: who knew, yes, probably not.

"The lab is a bit… smashed," Tony said slowly. "So let's get to work right here. You sure you don't want a drink, Simmons?"

She laughed. "Quite certain, thank you."

* * *

Steve did as he always did when he didn't know how to process his emotions: he went to the gym, hung up a punching bag, and started swinging his fists, sloppy and uncoordinated, teeth gritted. He didn't even bother wrapping his hands, relishing in the stinging impact of his bare knuckles against the leather.

Everything had been getting better. He'd begun to allow himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could break Hydra's hold on Bucky. That his best friend could be free. Steve had been sleeping better at night, his injures had healed (except for his still-tender ribs), things had been, if not good, manageable.

Damn Hydra.

He'd been so wrong. Trigger words? How the hell could they beat trigger words? Seventy years of programming. And he didn't even want to think about the way Bucky seemed attached to Rumlow, the way he'd been acting on the security tapes, begging, pleading, asking for the Hydra agent to understand, of all things. Steve's throat was closed up with what might be impending tears, and he beat his fists harder against the bag, panting, scowling.

Hydra was supposed to be gone. They were supposed to be in ruins, extinct, dead. He had destroyed them. He'd been willing to die, and he had, in a way. But they were still around, stronger than ever, and they'd turned his best friend into a robot and they'd broken him and they'd hurt people he loved and once, just once, couldn't he win?

"Steve."

It took a minute for Steve to register and respond to the quiet admonition, catching the swinging punching bag and holding it still. He glanced to his right, where Sam was standing, arms crossed, expression fairly ambiguous. "Hey," he mumbled, refusing to look at his throbbing knuckles, as if that could keep Sam from noticing them.

"Hey. Frustrated?"

"Just a little." Steve finally gave in and looked down at his hands; he'd bruised and split the skin on his knuckles, and they were bleeding just slightly. "Sorry."

"You're apologizing to me?" Sam raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Steve shrugged. "Sorry." Then he winced, embarrassed, realizing that he'd just apologized again.

His friend sighed, long and tired, and put his hands on his hips. "You need to go put something on your fingers, and then we need to talk."

"Are you going to lecture me about not pressuring James to be Bucky?" Steve said, a little bitterly. "Because I already got that from Nat and Clint."

"No. And if I was, now wouldn't be the time for that. Meet me on the roof after you deal with your hands, okay?"

Steve left the gym without saying anything more, arms still burning from the exertion. He should have known better than to let himself lose control like that; he'd practically been asking to get hurt.

He kept basic medical supplies in his bathroom: bandages, needles, sterile thread, mild antiseptic, and pain meds (it was a little scary how strong the medicine had to be to help a simple headache), amongst other things. He washed his hands, wincing a bit, and taped band-aids over the broken skin. He'd probably be better by tomorrow, but there was still no point in aggravating his injuries more than necessary.

He didn't really want to talk to Sam. The veteran had the unfortunate talent of being able to figure out what was bothering Steve and then ask about it without beating around the proverbial bush. And Steve didn't want to talk about the volcanic anger that bubbled so close to the surface these days, didn't want to talk about the sickening desire to put his hands around Rumlow's neck and squeeze until the man turned purple, didn't want to talk about how often he cried when he was alone and there was no one around to see.

He walked out of the bathroom and into the living room of his suite and it suddenly occurred to him that his bookshelf needed to be moved a bit more toward the kitchen. And after that, speaking of the kitchen, he should probably do the dishes.

JARVIS asked him what kind of shawarma he wanted. He muttered something noncommittal, scrubbing a plate.

"Mr. Wilson is waiting for you," JARVIS reminded him, gently. Steve gritted his teeth, sudsy water sloshing around his hand. He probably could have put all this stuff in the dishwasher. Never mind that though.

"Tell him I have a job to do," Steve grumbled.

"Pardon me, Captain, but I don't think Mr. Wilson will accept that excuse."

The Captain stopped working and slumped against the sink, scowling. "Fine. Tell him I'll join him in a minute." He went back to his room and found his leather jacket, the one he'd become inordinately fond of over the past year, and pulled it on over his t-shirt. He didn't want to talk to Sam. But his friend was probably right: he needed to.

Sam was indeed waiting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling out over empty space. He seemed to like that feeling, of being disconnected from the stability of the ground. Steve liked the idea of flying, but he didn't think he'd enjoy it as much in practice. He walked over and sat down next to his friend. "What did you want to talk about?" he sighed.

Sam smiled, glancing at him with a knowing look. "If you're really this averse to hanging out with me, we can just forget it."

"I'm sorry Sam, it's not like that, I just-"

"I'm kidding, Steve." The other man shook his head. "I guess I just figured you needed to talk to someone. Talking is usually more helpful than beating up a punching bag."

"I don't really want to talk," Steve said. "I'm fine." At Sam's incredulous look he amended his statement. "I mean, I'm managing."

"Cap, look, I get it. People kept trying to talk to me after I got back. Wanted to get me to process what happened to Riley and how I felt about it. And I didn't wanna do the sharing and caring thing with some shrink I didn't know, so I dealt with it by myself and I learned a few things. First thing I learned is that it sucks dealing with it by yourself."

Steve snorted. "Yeah, but it also sucks talking about it."

"I know."

Steve didn't know what to do with any of the information they'd learned today, and he didn't know how he was supposed to help Bucky in light of it. Maybe Sam would have some ideas. "Fine." Running a hand through his hair, he huffed a tired breath. "I just..." He took a moment to organize his thoughts as best he could. He almost wanted to just say "it's not fair" and let that sum things up, but instead he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared down at the busy street below the Tower, talking slowly. "How do I do this, Sam? I mean… what can I even do against everything they did to him? I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help him. What if I can't?"

He tapped his fingers restlessly against his knee, eyes unfocused. "I can't believe… He just obeyed them. He did whatever the hell they wanted, why… why would they have to…" He stopped, not sure how to finish.

Thankfully, Sam seemed to understand. "I'm not sure it was intentional. I've been thinking about all of this, and I think he has Stockholm syndrome. With Rumlow responsible for him in the field and giving punishments, Bucky must have gotten particularly attached to him."

Steve swore under his breath, rubbing his hands over his face. "Shit."

Sam nodded in agreement. "We can help him," he said firmly. "I don't know what we can do about the programming. Maybe nothing. But Bucky can get better."

Steve fisted his hand, staring at the band-aids on his knuckles, then sighed and stood up. The wind buffeted his back and sides, and for a moment the whole world felt unsteady. He took a few steps back from the edge of the roof, stretching. "Wanna spar until supper?"

Sam stood too, giving him a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "I don't think that's such a good idea, Cap. Not sure you could handle it since you already went a few rounds with a punching bag and lost."

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, Steve answered, "I could beat you any day of the week, Sam, and with one arm tied behind my back."

"Just cause you're fast doesn't mean you're tough."

"Why don't you spar me, then? Scared?"

"Hell no. Who said I wasn't gonna?"

Steve laughed, and they walked back inside together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I forgot to post the second chapter that I promised you guys yesterday. :/ I am doing soooo good at this. Geesh. Good news though, we're almost caught up! I have written, so far, 33 chapters. There are more to come, but 33 is how many I actually have written and posted on FF.net. Yayyy! The tragic thing is, once we're caught up, there will no longer be two chapters per week. More like 1-2 per month, depending on what's happening in the story. I'm a little slow.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and please leave a comment and kudos!


	27. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The sensation - it's not sorrow, but something deeper - of being broken. Of being crushed so often, and so hatefully, that emotion becomes something you can only wish for. If only you could cry, because then you'd feel something. Instead, you feel nothing. Just... haze and smoke inside. Like you're already dead." Brandon Sanderson

As predicted, Steve did beat Sam, although he couldn't have said with complete honesty that he wasn't going easy on the veteran. It felt good doing something physical and competitive; it took his mind off of everything that had gone wrong that day.

Supper, unfortunately, was a bit tense and put him back on edge.

The team sat down in the common room, lounging on the couches and chairs or perching on armrests or cross-legged on the floor. Bucky joined them, although it didn't seem like he wanted to be there. Even Pepper showed up, although she made it clear she wasn't going to be eating any shawarma. Steve sat on the floor, leaning against the couch in front of Natasha (who seemed to think it was funny to use his shoulders as a footrest).

Everyone felt awkward, but it was the kind of awkwardness that could be ignored. Only Thor was completely unaffected by the group's solemnity, stuffing shawarma into his mouth with almost alarming alacrity.

Steve liked shawarma. Usually. Tonight he wasn't even that hungry, so Nat ended up stealing most of his food.

"Hey James," Tony said, mouth full. "If it's okay with you, Simmons wanted to give you a bit of a check-up after dinner. Ask you a few questions about those trigger words."

Bucky tensed, right hand tightening so that his paper plate crumpled between his fingers. Steve almost said something, told Tony to leave him be, but he didn't. He needed to back off and let Bucky speak for himself, and more than that, they needed to know what the trigger words were, because if the Soldier couldn't learn to resist them, there was no point to any of this.

"Do I have to?" The question was almost petulant, but Steve realized that it wasn't that at all. A childish kind of question, but not because Bucky was trying to get out of doing anything. He was asking something else, almost. Steve glanced at Tony, hoping he caught the difference.

It seemed the billionaire had; he frowned and swallowed his bite of shawarma, apparently thinking. "Well, no. Not technically. But it's kind of important, and I think you'll want to. Those trigger words are a problem."

Bucky sighed and looked down, letting go of his plate to take a bite of shawarma. "I don't want to," he said quietly. "But okay." Then he looked up again, eyes tired, frustrated. "Can it be…? Can there not be other people there? Unless they have to be?"

"Of course." Simmons smiled at Bucky, reassuring. She seemed perpetually cheerful and kind, but Steve thought maybe she was hiding something – Coulson had implied that she had reason to be sad.

Bucky nodded and dropped his eyes to his plate. Steve sighed and did the same, realizing with a small huff of mock frustration that Natasha had managed to pilfer the last of his shawarma while he wasn't paying attention. "Rude," he muttered, glancing back at her with a faint smirk.

"What's rude, Steve Rogers," she said archly, "is you quitting our sparring appointments."

He snorted. "Sorry. Don't you spar with Clint?"

"Well, yes, but there are things you can help me with that he can't. And you're going to lose your edge if you aren't careful."

Steve wanted to argue that there were things more important than being in good fighting condition, but while that was certainly true, he couldn't let himself get out of practice. People depended on his being able to fight, and the weight of their expectations was so heavy sometimes.

"In fairness," – he gave a long, heavy sigh – "I have been injured."

"Yes, but you were neglecting your training before that, too."

"Alright, fine, I was. I'll start sparring with you again. You gonna leave me alone now?"

"Nope." She grinned down at him, eyes mischievous. "Never."

Steve chuckled and eyed his empty plate ruefully, suddenly hungry. "Is there any more food?"

"Pizza, in the fridge."

He sighed and got up to get some, making a face at Natasha as he went.

* * *

The lab was a mess of broken metal and glass and burnt objects, but from the way Stark was talking, it could have been way worse. This, then, was what happened when Banner transformed. James decided, once and for all, never to provoke him. (Even though he was somewhat curious to see what exactly the team meant when they said "a green giant who smashes things".)

Simmons had him sit down on a swiveling black chair (it was comfortable, although burnt), and then sat down in front of him on a chair of her own.

It all felt dangerous. The broken equipment, the spilled chemicals, the questioning. He fought back a shudder. There came the memories. Dead eyes, burned skin. Screaming. Mission report. He regulated his breathing and focused on Simmons' questions.

"How did it feel when Rumlow started saying the trigger words?"

James gritted his teeth. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to. "I don't know, it was…" He closed his eyes, remembered it. Remembered his other handlers saying them. "They used to say them to ground me. It was like… confirmation. That I was with Hydra. And I think they were supposed to cement my… my…" He stopped, fighting against his emotions. _Mission report. Pretend it's a mission report._ "I'd always obey, after hearing them. Rumlow said them. He didn't listen to me, he just-"

"Focus, James," Banner said firmly.

The Soldier opened his eyes, nodding. "It was like… It made everything blurry. My memories, they just… stopped. I didn't want to listen at first, but he… they… the words. They make me do what they want. They make me do… I can't… I couldn't…" He couldn't fight them. He couldn't even try. He just did what he was told and he didn't care what they made him do and they made him hurt Rogers and Natalia. "I hurt him," he said quietly. "I was going to fight Rumlow, I wanted to, but it's just… he was…"

Stark looked about to interrupt, but Simmons shook her head at him. So James kept talking.

"I hurt Rogers instead and I didn't want to and I… I thought maybe Rumlow would listen to me. Why wouldn't he listen to me?" He wanted answers. But he didn't want to think about it. So he thought about the words only, compartmentalized Rumlow. "It felt like I was being erased and then I just didn't care about anything but-" _Anything but Rumlow._ "Anything but doing what they told me to."

"Could you fight it?"

He hadn't tried very hard. He had been so confused and then Rumlow said the words and he hadn't tried to fight them. "I don't know."

He never tried to fight Rumlow. Rumlow was supposed to be better, Rumlow was different. The Soldier trusted him.

He hurt James all the time and he never stopped and it was James' fault but...

James stopped thinking about it.

"Do you know how they taught you the words?" Stark asked.

James tried to figure it out. So much of his brainwashing was hazy, not because he didn't remember, but because he refused to let himself remember too much about it. "I think... I think the words were commands. I don't really know what each of them does, but they made me mission ready."

"Okay." Stark was researching something, fingers tapping at an insubstantial screen. "How did they reinforce them?"

James wrapped his arm around himself, looking down. They broke him. He felt it, felt that he'd been someone strong once. And they broke him into a thousand aching pieces. He didn't answer because that was yet another thing he couldn't stand to think about.

"Okay, well, if it's alright we're going to give you a brief check-up," Simmons said kindly. "Which means hooking you up to this monitor. You have significant brain damage and we have to make sure it's healing right."

"Okay." He hated machines.

He hated Rumlow.

Normally thoughts like that made him feel guilty. He was supposed to feel guilty for hating Rumlow, but... but... Rumlow used the words on him. Rumlow tortured him. Rumlow punished him. And, he realized with a horrible jolt, Rumlow must have tortured Rogers too.

James was a person.

He told Rumlow that and the specialist mocked him and laughed at him. Did he deserve that?

"Simmons," he asked quietly, flatly, "am I a person?"

"Of course you are," she said, without hesitation. She didn't know him. But she said it so easily.

"Do I deserve to be hurt?" he asked.

She seemed shocked that he'd ask that; her expression was worried, sorry. "No! No. I don't think anyone does."

He contemplated that. "Okay."

"She's right." Stark looked uncomfortable. "I mean, okay, I think Rumlow deserves to be hurt. Hydra. Loki. Evil aliens. Terrorists. But not you."

James twisted his hand in the material of his sweatpants. He knew what Rogers would say, if asked. Why did Stark, who didn't even seem to like James, think he was something worth defending, but Rumlow didn't?

Rumlow didn't care. Rumlow was... Rumlow was cruel. Not because James deserved it, not because he did things wrong. Because he could. Because he wanted to use and manipulate James. Because... because he thought it was fun.

He was supposed to be different, but it turned out he was the worst of all of them.

James realized he was shaking. Hydra was evil. Rumlow was evil. He didn't know anything anymore except that he felt small. Hurt. Broken. They lied to him, all of them, over and over again. They hurt him and they used him and he didn't even fight them because they told him he deserved it.

They broke him, and he couldn't even fight it.

Oh, he had memories. Memories of screaming and struggling and refusing to do what they said. Memories of a different person, someone with the strength (or perhaps foolishness) to defy them. And they ripped him apart anyway.

He'd had a lot of missions, most of which he'd remembered by now. Missions that would have sent Rogers' friend screaming. James knew that he'd been Bucky once, but he couldn't make the connection in his head. But for the first time, he felt a deep terror when he remembered everything he'd done. They had lied to him and made him do that.

"What's wrong?" Simmons' soft voice made him flinch.

"Nothing." And everything.

"You're shaking, James," Banner said. "What's going on?"

"I said it was nothing." He curled his right hand into a white-knuckled fist.

"It might be good for us to know," Stark said. "You're freaking out." He pointed at the machine. James wasn't quite sure what all the data meant, but it probably meant that he was indeed, as Tony had put it, freaking out.

"I don't wanna talk about it." He fumbled at the sensors they'd attached to his skin, pulling them off.

"James, wait-"

He climbed over a broken table and wandered to the door. It slid open, he went out. Down the hall. To the elevator.

A few floors down. The gym was empty. That was good.

He didn't know what he'd been planning to do once he got there, but he ended up standing in one place for a moment, thinking.

He had been taken advantage of so many times. He'd done so many things, things that made him sick and angry and frightened. He felt at the scars on his shoulder again. He had a lot of scars like these ones. And only a few of them were from missions.

They hurt him and controlled him for seventy years. And he couldn't stop them.

He went to the weight rack. Lifted one, hefted it easily in his right hand. Then he hurled it across the room with a broken yell. It slammed into the padded floor with a dull thud. He lifted another weight, heavier this time, and flung it harder. This time it hit a piece of exercise equipment, denting it, clanging to the floor. He wanted his metal arm. He wanted to rip things, tear them apart, break them.

Hydra did so much to him and he let them. _He let them._

He growled and shoved over the weight rack, irrationally hating it. Hating everything.

"Sergeant Barnes, you shouldn't-" Jarvis started.

"Don't tell me what to do," he hissed desperately. "Don't do that."

He stepped over the fallen weights, fist clenching and unclenching. He needed to feel something. He needed to break something.

His fist collided with the wall with all the force his serum-enhanced body was capable of. It hurt, it hurt badly, but they'd taught him how to ignore that, so he did.

They made him what he was. He struck again, gritting his teeth against the pain because he wasn't supposed to react to pain, right? Wasn't supposed to.

He laughed, broken and angry, and slammed his fist into the wall once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

"Bucky, stop!"

There they were, the Avengers. Panicking because he couldn't just pretend to be normal.

"You're hurting yourself, Kiryanov, you have to stop."

Yes, he had hurt himself. Two broken fingers. He let out a long, shaky breath and slumped, letting his fingers uncurl. "Sorry," he muttered. "Sorry."

"It's okay." Natalia came up to him; he'd realized some time ago that she was usually the one who dealt with him when the team didn't know what he was going to do. "Are you okay?"

"One of these days you guys are going to realize what a stupid question that is," he rasped, wiping his face with his forearm. He was exhausted.

Rogers wasn't here, although he probably would be soon. Stark was, and Clint, and Thor.

"Do you want to talk?"

"No." James flexed his fingers carefully, testing them. That hurt. "Not now," he amended, at Natalia's worried frown.

He didn't want to talk. He wanted to go kill Rumlow and the rest of Hydra for what they had made him do.

But he couldn't, at least not yet, so he stared down at his broken fingers and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothin' new to say here, I don't think. Nothing except, hey! You should follow me on Tumblr! Because my blog is the cooooolest. ;) Take a peek: http://captainarwenpond221b.tumblr.com/
> 
> Anywho, love y'all for reading!


	28. Effects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Never be afraid to trust an unknown future to a known God." - Corrie ten Boom

Natasha spent the entirety of the next day supervising the transfer of Brock Rumlow from Avengers' Tower to government custody. It took a lot of diplomacy (in other words, lying) to explain why they'd kept the man prisoner for so long without informing the authorities. She said he was too injured for the government to handle so they kept him for treatment, they needed to question him on their own, no of course they didn't torture him, yes all his injuries were from getting Steve back, no we aren't sure why he kidnapped Captain Rogers but it was probably because he was Hydra, yes I'm telling you the truth, isn't that what the lie detector says? (It was, lie detectors were pitiful and never caught her.) The government ended up not quite satisfied with her answers but unable to figure out why, and Rumlow was taken away to a maximum security prison cell.

She then spent most of the afternoon sorting through the scraps of intel they'd managed to get out of him, which was immensely frustrating and made her want to get him back from the government and punch him a few more times. He'd deliberately coughed up cryptic, half-true phrases that made little or no sense, and only a few of the pieces of information they'd gotten from him seemed trustworthy.

It wasn't until supper time that Clint convinced her to "get off her ass and come have dinner with him." That was an old habit of theirs from before the Avengers, and it didn't take much persuading to get her to change clothes and go with him to their favorite New York restaurant.

Once they were out of the Tower and in a car (with Clint driving because he claimed that Natasha was too reckless), he started rambling, talking nonstop about nothing important. Nat sensed that that meant he was stressed and needed to relax, so she let him talk.

"I mean, I keep telling Laura we should have another kid," he huffed, gesturing with one hand and driving with the other. "But she says she'd be the one at home taking care of three kids by herself, so we can't have another one unless I agree to retire, or at least take a break. Which I wouldn't mind, but this is how I keep them fed. Besides, someone's gotta save the world."

Natasha snorted, applying a bit more lipstick as an excuse to use the car mirror to check behind them for tails. The disastrous outcome of Steve's most recent outing had proven, once again, that they should never assume they were safe.

She was still angry about that. Not that anyone blamed her.

She closed the mirror, determining that, at least for now, no one was following them.

Their favorite restaurant to go to was a small Thai place with the most authentic Thai food in America (at least, that they had found so far). They usually went there in light disguise, although the owners knew who they were and had been bribed (probably unnecessarily) to pretend that they were no one special.

As usual, the door gave a little ding as they entered the restaurant, and a few of the diners glanced up but didn't react otherwise. Clint winked at Natasha and they selected a table, as they always did.

A waiter came over. He was the son of the owner and, when working, very polite. "What will you be having today?" he asked, handing them their menus.

Natasha ordered what she usually did, chicken satay and two egg rolls, while Clint perused the menu quickly (with an expression of mock-thoughtfulness on his face) before selecting wonton soup with a shrug. As he always did.

The waiter nodded, took their menus back, and walked away. Clint sighed and leaned back in his seat.

"How are you?" Natasha asked quietly. She hadn't had a chance to talk to him, just the two of them, for a while. And she sensed that he didn't want to discuss Loki or New York at all. Still, she had to ask.

"Fine," he said tersely. His tone said _not fine_ , but it also said _don't push it_ , so she sighed and let it go. For the moment. A moment later he managed a smile, sighing, "What about you?"

She laughed once, a short noise of amusement. "Fine." She hesitated. "Honestly, though… I'm tired. It's a lot, getting used to everyone and dealing with James. And I'm… not sleeping well." Realizing she'd been unconsciously massaging her wrist, she busied her hands unfolding a napkin to place on her lap.

Clint nodded. He was a good listener. Some people she'd known liked trying to talk things better, and thought they had to give her advice and try to fix everything right away, but Clint understood that all she needed him to do was listen, maybe make a commiserating remark every now and again.

"You could go back to using a scarf to tie your wrist to the headboard," he said quietly.

"No." She sighed and shook her head. "It would work, but I need to learn to sleep without that kind of thing."

He frowned a little, but didn't argue. Growing up in the Red Room, the headmistresses had cuffed them to their beds by one wrist every night as they slept. It was so they wouldn't run away, but it was also (like so many other things they did) a power play. To this day, she couldn't sleep easy without some kind of pressure around her wrist holding her in place. On missions, Clint used to lay next to her and hold her wrist as she slept, but when Steve became her partner, she had to settle for a scarf or bandana wrapped as tightly as she dared around her arm. She couldn't ask him to do what Clint had done for her; she'd barely known him then.

Maybe now she could, but those days of partners and protocols and missions were over, although she'd been talking to Coulson lately. He wanted to put the Avengers on call, get them to take out Hydra bases that his team couldn't handle. So far, she was uncertain, but Clint thought it was a good idea. Nat didn't know how to admit that she was mostly just opposed to the idea because she was still angry that Coulson hadn't told her he was still alive.

"Maybe it would help if you didn't go cold-turkey," he said carefully. "You could just wear a bracelet or armband to sleep for a while, and when you're used to that, _then_ go without it."

Natasha nodded very slowly. She didn't want to do that; it made the habit feel too much like an addiction, but since she couldn't even sleep more than two hours at a time now, maybe he was right.

Their waiter came back to their table with their food, smiling politely.

"Thank you." Natasha accepted her dish with a grin and started eating. She hadn't bothered to eat lunch, and she realized quite suddenly how hungry she was.

Clint wasn't far behind, slurping up his hot soup obnoxiously.

"You're an idiot," Nat grumbled at him, suppressing a smile.

"And you're no fun," he retorted. "This is how soup was meant to be eaten."

She didn't dignify that remark with a reply.

"Where have you all been?" the waiter asked quietly. "Nobody's heard anything from the Avengers for a long time except for that assault on an empty house a month or so ago. And there were rumors that Captain America was being held hostage."

"We just like our privacy," Natasha answered. "Paparazzi and talk shows aren't really our forte. Excepting Tony, and we aren't letting him out in public any more than necessary. He has a tendency to blurt things out without thinking." She winked.

The waiter didn't look convinced, but Natasha put on her best, most innocent smile, and took a large bite of her chicken. Her way of declaring the conversation over. So he nodded, took their menus, and walked away.

"We need to start making appearances again," she said softly.

"Oh gee, you think?" Clint snapped. "I know we do, but we also both know that Steve won't be comfortable leaving the Tower to do press junkets right now and probably still wouldn't be if things weren't happening. Tony shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a microphone. Bruce wouldn't be comfortable being asked about the Hulk and his involvement in team dynamics. Don't even get me started on Thor. You aren't exactly popular right now, I'm not popular any time of the year, and no one knows who Sam is yet. Our best options for actual interviews are you, me, or Rhodes, and nobody cares about our opinions because we're the sidekicks and you turned out to be a former Russian spy. Steve could do okay except his emotions are as obvious as neon signs and he hates crowds."

"He sold bonds for a few years and managed fine then, I bet he could do it."

"Don't tell me you haven't figured out how much he hated that yet," Clint said with a snort, raising an eyebrow.

It was a fair point. From what little Steve had said, Natasha had deduced that he wasn't just embarrassed about the costume and dancing and girls, but also what he'd let them turn him into at the time. Still, it was worth talking to him about. They had few other safe options.

Letting the American people (and, worse, the government) know that they were harboring an internationally wanted terrorist and master assassin was obviously not an option.

* * *

Sam spent most of the evening in his room studying. He hadn't told anyone else on the team, but shortly after moving into the Tower, he'd started an online college course to get a degree in psychology. He'd never finished college, instead joining the army, so he suddenly found himself flying blind as he tried to work with Bucky. He did his best, following his instincts and trying to apply what he'd learned from leading his support group to Bucky's problems, but he still felt overwhelmed. Put simply, he had no idea what he was doing. So he took some of the money he'd been saving in case of emergencies and started taking psychology, because helping treat a ninety-year-old super soldier with complex PTSD probably counted as an emergency.

He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his laptop. His head hurt – too long staring at the screen, probably – so he got up to get some water and ibuprofen.

Bucky had apparently spent the rest of the day before, after having his fingers treated, sitting on the chair in his room and staring blankly at the floor. They'd all been a little worried that he was going to start punching things again or try to hurt himself, and Sam couldn't decide if his silent sitting was better or worse. He hadn't even journaled, which JARVIS seemed worried about (or at least, as worried as a too-polite British AI could be) because Bucky supposedly journaled whenever he had a particularly difficult time emotionally.

Then again, Sam couldn't really blame Bucky at all. He finally seemed to have realized the horror of what had been done to him, which was a good thing in some ways, not so much in others.

And Steve was, understandably, freaking out.

Lunch had been incredibly tense earlier – Sam and Bucky and Clint had gone to get their food at the same time, and Bucky had ignored all their attempts at making conversation. If he'd been anyone else, Sam would've said he was sulking, but of course that wouldn't be fair to say now. So Clint and Sam ended up maintaining an uncomfortable silence as they ate their sandwiches and tried unsuccessfully to figure out how Bucky was feeling.

Yeah… It had been a long day. Sam swallowed a glass of water and debated whether or not to go upstairs. On the one hand, Steve could probably use his support; the poor guy was really nervous. On the other hand, Sam didn't really want to face more tension today.

He went upstairs. He was hungry.

The common area was surprisingly empty; normally at this time of night the whole team was in there playing games, eating, or watching TV. But apparently today everyone felt as uncomfortable as he did, because only Thor, Bucky, and Steve were upstairs.

Bucky looked completely blank and unresponsive, so the second Steve caught sight of Sam, he looked relieved. That made the staff sergeant bite back a weary sigh. Steve always seemed to expect him to know what to say and do, which Sam sort of understood (he was pretty smart, after all) but still felt uncomfortable with.

The Captain hurried over to Sam, his pleading expression almost comical. "He's not talking," Steve said, quietly and a bit desperately.

"I know." Sam grinned encouragingly at his friend and pushed past him to get to the kitchen. "You just gotta give him space for a while."

"I know, I know," Steve said, rubbing his hands over his face. "I just... I don't know what to do, Sam."

Sam snorted. "Well, neither do I, Cap. You keep asking me, but I still don't know. What kinda food do we have?"

Seeming chastised, Steve told him they had leftover casserole and Chinese takeout. Sam got out the Chinese food and went to sit by Bucky, who was perched on the arm of the couch.

"Hey man," Sam said, trying to get comfortable. "You doing okay?"

Bucky barely responded; he might have shrugged a little, but Sam wasn't sure.

"What's going on, James?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I've obviously failed at this "update every Tuesday and Thursday" thing. However, since I've missed updating for a few weeks (I believe) and there aren't too many chapters left that are already written AND because it's Veteran's Day, I'll be posting all the rest of the 34 chapter today. :) Then you'll get updates at the same time as my FF.net readers, which unfortunately means you'll get slower updates.
> 
> Anyway, hope you like this chapter!


	29. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He beat me over, and over, and over. He swore at me, he yelled at me, he told me he'd betray me. Every day, I thought about how much I hated him. And I loved him." - Brandon Sanderson

James couldn’t quite contain the wave of annoyance he felt at Wilson’s questioning. People had been trying to talk to him all day, and although he understood why, he couldn’t help his frustration. He didn’t want to face the questions he knew they would ask, if he let them. So he protected himself by ignoring everyone.

“Bucky?” Rogers tried.

“I’m not him,” James grunted, staring at the floor. _Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone._

“Sorry. Habit.”

“I know.” He considered getting up and walking out, but looking at Rogers’ worried face, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he slid off the arm of the couch and moved across the room to sit on the floor next the coffee table. He felt smaller, a little safer, and (most importantly) more removed from the others.

James didn't know what to do. He felt... he felt... he wasn't sure what he felt. It was too much to process and he wasn't sure whether he was angry or confused or depressed. At the moment he was leaning towards numb. He just wanted to be alone and hide from everyone and pretend nothing had happened, because confronting his new loss was too daunting. Nothing quite felt right. He hated what he'd done, but he couldn't quite connect with why. There was a deep disgust associated with the mental images, but when he thought about why he was disgusted, it was mostly because he had been forced to do so much by Hydra. And he wondered if maybe he was supposed to be upset about all the relatively innocent people he'd hurt.

But he wasn't, not really. He didn't know how to be. And that frightened him a little.

He looked back towards the couch; Rogers and Wilson were talking quietly back and forth. Thor was sitting nearby too, but not doing much of anything.

Except staring thoughtfully at James.

The assassin met the alien's blue gaze, scowling, half-daring him to say anything. He didn't much like the large, blond demigod, and the unsettling stare wasn't helping.

Thor stood – he was sitting languidly on an armchair – and walked over to sit on the couch nearest James. James waited for the booming voice, for all the attention to be back on him again. But Thor turned out to be perfectly capable of quiet, as he said, in a weary murmur, “You shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

“I’m not being hard on him,” James protested half-heartedly. Thankfully, no one else paid them any attention; still, he leant forward and lowered his voice. “What do you know about it, anyway?”

Thor gave him a smile that was almost too amused, even patronizing. “He just wants to make sure you’re alright.”

“Well, maybe if he’d just back off a little…” James grumbled under his breath.

Thor actually laughed, which made Rogers glance over at them almost immediately.

James looked down and shook his head, scowling. “Case in point.”

“Alright, that’s fair,” Thor rumbled, grinning. Then he looked serious again. “I don’t mean Steven isn’t too overprotective, just that you are not as fair too him as you might be.”

"I’m..." James stopped and glanced over at Rogers again. He wanted to say that he had no obligation to be fair to anyone, that he didn’t care what Rogers thought or felt, but he didn’t say that. "No one calls him Steven," he said instead.

Thor chuckled quietly, although he looked a little disappointed. "I do."

"Why? Everyone else calls him Steve."

"Because that's his full name, and on Asgard people are referred to by their names and titles properly. It’s a mark of respect."

James raised an eyebrow. A memory came to mind of Steve protesting as his mother - his "ma" - lectured him about not getting in fights, calling him Steven Grant Rogers and making him tell her with a huff of frustration that he wasn't some long dead president and couldn't she just call him Steve? He smiled slightly.

There'd been a time, he realized, when he'd hated his full name too. "James Buchanan Barnes"... It really was a mouthful.

“Maybe you would at least try?” Thor said, sighing. “I understand how he feels, and he is trying.”

James rubbed his face and looked away. "I know,” he muttered. “I’m just tired of everyone treating me like I’m going to explode.”

Thor glanced at Wilson and Rogers, who seemed to be concluding a conversation, then said, “Think about it,” got up, and moved back to his earlier seat without further comment. James scowled and rested his chin on his knees.

He hated that Thor had said what he had, although he knew that it was true that he was being too hard on Rogers. He was just worried that if he let himself be kind to Rogers, he’d think James wanted to be friends again.

“Do you mind if we turn on a movie?” Wilson asked. James didn't immediately realize that Wilson was talking to him and it took him a moment to answer once he did.

“No."

"Okay, thanks. JARVIS, put on that movie Steve and I were talking about."

From Rogers' groan, James decided that the movie in question wasn't one that the Captain was very excited about seeing. In a moment he understood why as bold lettering flashed across the screen: "Captain America: The First Avenger."

James managed a smile as the first scenes started playing. A scrawny blond man (who didn't look quite like Rogers, but that made sense, it was just an actor) stood up in an army recruitment office, looking firmly determined. James smiled fondly _(ain't that so typically Stevie)_ , although it felt wrong and painful to remember that. However, he stayed in the room a while longer, privately enjoying the familiar scenery and clothing (even if it wasn't always accurate), until someone showed up on the screen that he didn't want to see.

Himself.

Sauntering comfortably into an alleyway in a crisp army uniform, smirking at Rogers' actor and teasing him. Maybe the actor didn't look much like him, but it was still there. The banter, the ease, the _friendship_. James frowned and stood, discomfited. Time to go. Ignoring the other occupants of the room, he weaved past the couches to get to the elevator. Maybe he'd go back to the gym and exercise. There wasn't normally anyone else there, so maybe he'd finally get some space.

He wasn't exactly surprised when that didn't turn out to be the case. Natasha was in the middle of what looked like tai chi, eyes closed as she moved through a number of fluid poses. Before he could turn and walk back out, however, she called (eyes still closed), "Do you need something?"

He hesitated. "No."

Then she finally stopped, as if surprised it was him, standing and raising an eyebrow. "Hey, James."

"Hey."

"I was just about to text Clint and see if he wanted to spar," – briefly, James wondered what that had to do with him – "But since you're here, do you want to?"

James blinked and went totally still. He'd assumed that that would be something he wasn't allowed to do; the sparring he was used to didn't seem like the sort of thing they'd appreciate here. When Hydra had him spar, he was allowed to do anything, short of killing or maiming his opponent, to win. And they were allowed to do the same to him. He suppressed a shudder, frustrated.

"I don't think… I don't think I should." He didn't want to hurt Natalia, and he very well might – he didn't know whether he'd be able to control himself very well if he started fighting. He hated it, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

"It's fine, James," she told him, smiling in that strange, half-serious way she had. And that was familiar too, although his memories of her were still incomplete.

"I'll hurt you."

"Trust me, you won't. Just don't do anything too crazy and pull your punches a bit. I spar with Steve all the time, I think I can handle you."

James figured she was probably right, but he still tried desperately to think of a good excuse not to before agreeing. "Okay."

Natalia led him to a mat in the middle of the floor. "Just don't start picking things up to hit me with," she said, chuckling.

James was grateful for the instruction as he settled into a combat stance. He could do this, right?

He ended up striking first; Natalia wisely refused to make the first move, so he took a deep, steady breath and aimed a heavy punch at her collarbone. She dodged his fist with a small smile and kicked out, probably trying to kick his legs out from under him. He felt his training taking over, and for the most part he let it. It felt more natural than anything he'd done in a long time, despite the unfamiliar lack of a left arm.

Maybe a little too natural.

Several time he realized belatedly that he'd let himself strike too hard; thankfully Natalia avoided most of his blows. She was staying back, dancing at the edge of his reach, using his weight against him whenever he got too close.

But fighting her was something he'd done over and over again; he remembered how she moved and how she used to beat him. So he faked exhaustion, pretended that his missing arm was hard to get used to (it was, but he exaggerated the difficulty), and waited for her to draw in closer, launching herself at her shoulders, clearly planning to lock her thighs around his neck and bring him down. At the last moment, he ducked to the side and grabbed her close to him, arresting her momentum and flinging her down onto her back. Before she could get up, he straddled her struggling form, pinning her to the mat.

Immediately she started ramming her knees into his back, but he stopped trying to fight, mind racing. He held her hands at her sides, panting, and didn't move because suddenly he remembered why he couldn't categorize how he felt about Natalia, why he'd left the academy, why those memories were particularly fuzzy, why she always stared at him with a kind of worried hope. With a string of curses he scrambled to get off of her and away, shoving his hair away from his face and rushing for the door. He didn't care what she would think he was doing, he just needed to get away from her and the memories and the goddamn expectations. This was worse, this was way worse than remembering Rogers or even his missions.

"James? James, what's wrong?"

Damn her. He stopped by the door and swung to face her, somewhere between panicked and furious. "Nothing," he snapped. "I'll deal with it, okay?"

"James!"

But he wasn't going to let her ask again. With a frustrated growl, he strode through the door and took off running. He was going back to suite, and they could all go to hell. He didn't want the memories. He didn't want to know what Hydra had taken from him because he didn't want to want it back.

He'd gotten free and he knew Hydra was bad, wasn't that enough for the Avengers? It was good enough for him. Now he just wanted them to leave him alone.

But they wouldn't.

Not in his daily life, and not in his memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, so. Ordinarily this is where I'd go into a whole spiel on what's happening into the story etcetera. Currently though, I have to tell y'all about future plans for this story. So... IMPORTANT PLEASE READ:
> 
> As you guys have probably noticed, this story is getting pretty long, and because of the number of chapters I am going to break it into two parts. The first part is this current part, "I Knew Him". This could be called the first half of Bucky's recovery; it will end whenever James works out once and for all that he is, in fact, Bucky Barnes and has made the connection in his head. (Because that will happen, I just dunno when yet.) The second part will be published separately with a different title, kind of like publishing a second "book". It will continue pretty much exactly where this one left off and there won't be any change, it'll simply break the story into two manageable parts so that new followers won't be daunted by the massive number of chapters and it will be easier for the rest of us to navigate. Obviously I will notify all of you as to the title of the second part when it's published and make this into a series on here.
> 
> Now for my spiel: As per usual, Bucky is confused, Steve is miserable, and EVERYONE IS AWFUL. Now, to the Buckynat fans reading: I'm sorry guys, your ship isn't going to sail in the present. Except maybe a little since Bucky is confused. It happened in the past but I don't ship it enough, nor do I have the time, to properly develop that plot bunny. Sorry. :)
> 
> Also (sorry, I have a lot to say right now), When I mentioned CA:TFA in this chapter, I wasn't saying that it was the same, exactly, as the movie we would watch. Since Steve is a historical figure in the MCU, I figured they'd probably make one of those neat historical movies about his life and therefore I stuck that in for a touch of humor.
> 
> Please review with opinions and feels and all that!


	30. Avoidance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." - Ernest Hemingway

Steve didn't really enjoy watching his life play out on screen. Mostly because it was such an uncomfortable situation, partly because it hurt to be reminded of everything he'd lost. As much as he loved his new friends and life, there were things he would probably never stop missing because they'd ended so suddenly.

He just had to hide the embarrassment, however, because as strange as he felt having a movie made about him, he didn't want to give Sam and the others anything else to tease him about. So he maintained his best poker face throughout the film, and when it was over, declared simply that it was good and got up to leave.

Sam seemed to think that Steve was upset at him, and probably would've said something about it only Steve couldn't quite suppress a triumphant grin as he walked out of the room. So Sam just laughed at him.

Steve felt a little bad that Bucky had disappeared once the movie started, but he suspected that the Sergeant had been looking for a good excuse to leave anyway. He avoided thinking about that for too long though; he'd promised Natasha recently that he would try to back off a bit when it came to Bucky and he didn't need to start second-guessing himself.

Bucky would talk to them when and if he was ready, and not before.

Steve intended to play some guitar (he hadn't practiced in ages), but when his suite door opened he was surprised and concerned to see Natasha waiting for him, seated on his sofa with an embarrassed look on her face. He padded carefully around the couch to sit down next to her.

"Is everything okay?"

"I don't actually know." Natasha seemed uncharacteristically nervous as she stared at the floor, arms crossed.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. "Wanna explain?"

"Yeah, sorry. It's just... I think I scared Bucky."

"He's skittish right now after whatever happened in the gym," Steve sighed. None of them had been able to quite work out what had inspired the angry outburst the day before, although it apparently had something to do with whether or not he was a person.

"I know, but I... tried sparring with him."

That got Steve's attention and he stiffened in his seat. "You did what? Nat, you know I trust your judgement, but sparring?"

"I know, I know. It went fine, but then he got me pinned and kind of went still, then he freaked out and ran off." Natasha pinched the bridge of her nose, scowling as if at her own poor decision.

Steve frowned. "Any idea why?"

"Not really. It could have been any number of things and he pretty much told me to piss off."

Steve closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He wanted to help, but apparently the last thing Bucky wanted right now was "help" from any of them. Still, they had no idea what was going on in his head at the moment and that, unfortunately, tended to be difficult and dangerous for all involved. "Do you at least know where he is?"

"JARVIS said he was sitting on the roof. And before you ask, there's no danger of him jumping off. JARVIS has protocols in place to stop him if… if he tries." Natasha let out a heavy sigh. "Sorry. I thought he'd appreciate having a way to let off some steam without hurting himself or anyone else."

"It's fine," Steve said. He didn't want Natasha to start blaming herself for things now. She of all people didn't need any more reasons to get down on herself. "Do you think we should go talk to him?"

"I at least don't think I should, since the whole thing seems to have been my fault."

That was probably true. But Steve couldn't help but feel a little daunted at the idea of having to talk to Bucky by himself. He didn't really know what he was doing and he didn't want to screw things up. It would be all too easy to let himself get too comfortable and forget that James wasn't Bucky anymore. He didn't say any of that, though. "Okay. I'll give him an hour or so and then go find him."

Natasha hesitated, then stood up. "Great. Would you talk to me afterwards? If I did something to upset him I don't want to do it again."

Steve stood too, wishing he had something to say that would make her feel better; it occurred to him that she must be struggling with this too. She'd known Bucky also, if differently than he had, and been through a lot with him. And with all that she always managed to stay strong and objective through everything. But he couldn't think of anything, so he just smiled awkwardly and nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure it'll be okay."

Nat snorted, her uncertain expression vanishing beneath a wry smirk. "Of course it will, Rogers," she said. "Isn't it always?"

He rolled his eyes half-heartedly at her and watched her walk out. As the door closed behind her, he let out a deep sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and went to his room to get his guitar. He hadn't played in a long time, although early on after being thawed out he'd done his research and used a bit of his Army back pay to buy himself a gorgeous Taylor guitar. He wasn't a great player, but he enjoyed it, which was the important thing. Out of the team, only Sam knew he could play.

He seated himself cross-legged on the bed and started playing _7 Years_ , one of the few modern songs that he really enjoyed. He let himself get lost in the music for a little while, comforted by the familiarity of the motions and words.

…

The wind tugged at Steve like an over-enthusiastic dog as he stood on the roof, and it made his eyes and nose run. The sky was clear that evening, silver-blue and chilly. He thought maybe it was going to storm later, though, because a bank of dark grey clouds crouched on the edge of the horizon. He glanced away from the scenery and back at Bucky.

His friend was sitting on the edge of the roof, one leg drawn up to his chest, the other tucked under him. He was staring down at the New York streets, the wind whipping his long hair into his face.

Steve was no longer certain that trying to talk to him was a good idea. Bucky didn't seem to want to interact with anyone. But they had to know what was going on, so Steve took a deep breath and strode towards him.

"Hey." To his surprise, almost as soon as he began moving, Bucky acknowledged him. "Took you a while."

Of course the assassin had known he was there; Steve hesitated half a step before continuing, sitting down next to Bucky and feeling exceedingly awkward. "Hey. Yeah, I just didn't want to bother you."

"Too late." Bucky said that without malice, his tone flat and almost humorous. "What do you want?"

"I talked to Natasha. She's worried she hurt you or something." Steve figured it would be best to get straight to the point.

To his surprise, Bucky flinched and then went dead still. "Right." He didn't offer any more information, and Steve wasn't sure if he should press the issue.

"She just doesn't want to offend you or anything if she can help it," he explained, then fell silent himself and looked back out at the horizon.

It was perhaps another five minutes before Bucky finally answered him. "Well, there isn't much she can do about this. It wasn't even her fault. You can tell her to relax, I'm fine."

Steve frowned but bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue. He awkwardly scratched his jaw and said, cautiously, "You know we kind of have no idea what's going on with you right now and we can't help if you don't-"

"If I don't spill my guts like a good boy and let you try to fix me, right?" Bucky sneered. Then he cringed and shook his head. "Never mind. I just don't wanna talk about it, Rogers, so maybe you should go."

"James..."

"Look." His friend straightened and turned to face him, meeting his eyes with a long sigh. "I get it. You're worried. But your worry isn't helpful, and neither is all this talking you guys like so much. You know what would help?"

He was apparently waiting for an answer, and Steve gritted his teeth to contain a frustrated reply. "What?"

"If you left me the hell alone. I'm grateful to you, Rogers, don't get me wrong, but I'm not gonna be the guy you or Natalia expect and that's it."

Steve didn't have a good answer for that, so instead he said, "You don't like being called Bucky." The Sergeant raised a questioning eyebrow. "Well, I don't like being called Rogers. I call you James, so you can call me Steve, right?"

Bucky frowned, then sighed again and looked away. "Fine. I'm still not him though."

Steve closed his eyes. "Trust me. I know." He didn't really know what to do anymore. Bucky wasn't going to tell him anything else, not for a while anyway. "Just... promise me one thing?"

"What?"

"Tell me you aren't going to hurt yourself again." Steve stared at the roof between his knees. He still couldn't stop thinking about that, the sight of Bucky's damaged knuckles and angry laughter and the panicked way JARVIS had told him, "He's punching the wall and I think he's hurting himself. He won't listen to me."

"You mean this?" Bucky held his bandaged hand out.

"Yeah."

There was a long moment of silence, then, "I promise. You gonna leave me alone now?" His voice was surprisingly vulnerable, and Steve considered pushing for information, but he didn't think he'd forgive himself for that, so he stood.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"And one other thing," Bucky added.

"Yeah?"

"If you could... I don't... I don't want to see Natalia. It's not her fault, I just can't."

Steve nodded hesitantly, beginning to think he understood. "Okay. I'll see what I can do... Is this because of-?"

"I believe you were leaving," Bucky snapped. Steve took the hint and hurried back inside.

He found Natasha playing pool with Clint, the two of them talking some light smack talk. She saw him walk into the room and he could almost see the worry settling back over her like a cloud before she caught herself.

"Steve!" Clint tossed a pool stick at him before he had time to say anything. "Help me out, she's hustling me."

Steve snorted and tossed the stick back. "You deserve it, Barton."

"Why?" Clint faked insult, gaping.

"I don't know. I'm sure you did something."

"Ha ha ha." The archer rolled his eyes. "What's up?"

"Um, I wanted to talk to Nat."

Natasha smiled a little and Clint nodded. "Yeah, I know, she told me all that. What's the deal?"

"Well, mostly I figured out that Bucky doesn't want to talk to anyone, but he also says he's sorry, Natasha, and that it wasn't really your fault. And, um, he doesn't want to see you."

"What does that mean?" Nat asked.

"I'm not quite sure. That's all he said. He said he didn't want to see you, then he said it wasn't your fault again."

"Oh." Natasha closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Steve and Clint waited for her to go on. "Do you think it's because of his memories, or...?" She seemed exhausted and embarrassed.

Steve glanced at Clint, who said, "Maybe. That's all I can think of. Unless there's something you're not telling us."

"There's not." Natasha set down her pool stick and leaned back against the table. "I don't know whether he ever remembered everything that happened in the Red Room but he always seemed a little confused about me. Whether he did or not, though, that seems like it would be the only thing that could make him act like this." Steve wanted to hug her, but thought maybe she wouldn't appreciate it. Clint, on the other hand, had no such qualms and went over to put his arms around her.

"So what do we do, if that's the case?" Steve said.

"For now, nothing," Clint answered. "He clearly doesn't want to talk and is probably really uncomfortable. We just have to give him space and let him sort things out himself."

Steve sighed and nodded. "I guess you're right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! Not much to say here for this chapter.


	31. Government

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Behind my eyelids are islands of violence  
> My mind ship-wrecked, this was the only land my mind could find  
> I did not know it was such a violent island  
> Full of tidal waves, suicidal crazed lions  
> They're trying to eat me, blood running down their chin  
> And I know that I can fight or I can let the lion win  
> I begin to assemble what weapons I can find  
> 'Cause sometimes to stay alive you gotta kill your mind." - Twenty One Pilots, 'Migraine'

Over the next week and a half, the most anyone got out of Bucky was a number of apologies and frustrated dismissals. Tony was beginning to think two things: One, Bucky was finally acting somewhat like any sane person would in his situation (sort of), two, Bucky was going to be acting like this for a while if Steve didn't quit being a mother hen. He was trying to do better, Tony could tell, but if Cap wasn't careful he was going to end up with a permanent frown, which would be funny but too bad.

He and Bruce had nearly worked out all the kinks with the metal arm. It was very exciting. The biggest remaining difficulties were fine-tuning the arm's detailed motor control and what metal it should be composed of.

Gold-titanium alloy would be fine, but it was gold (so the color didn't match) and still a little heavy to do something so detailed with. Plus Tony wasn't Hydra and since he wasn't, he wanted the arm to be as lightweight and comfortable for Bucky as possible.

Ideally, he would have used vibranium, but he had none. He'd heard a few rumors that there might be some in Africa, but all his efforts to track any down had been useless.

At the moment he was alone in his workshop, building what was probably going to turn out to be a small model Iron Man suit but which currently looked like a bunch of twisted pieces of metal. He liked working on small, throwaway projects when he was thinking about larger issues because it kept him focused (if his hands weren't busy he tended to have difficulty paying attention to anything).

"JARVIS, have you tried that lead in Egypt?" he said lazily, picking up a propane torch to do a miniature welding job.

"Yes, sir. It appeared to be a dead end, as were all the others."

Tony sighed. That wasn't really a surprise, but the only leads left pointed to Siberia, Wakanda, and somewhere in the Arctic. All three places would be hard to check for different reasons.

"Send a suitably nice and groveling message to whomever it may concern in Wakanda about needing to do some kind of official-sounding check there," Tony decided. "And ask Natasha if she could help me manipulate the Russian government into letting us poke around out there a bit."

"Right away. If I may say so, Mr. Stark, you give me the most fascinating instructions sometimes. It is a privilege to relay them to other people."

"I programmed you to be sarcastic, JARVIS, I can easily change that," Tony grumbled. Not that he ever would. Making his AI boring would be an affront to the real Jarvis' memory.

"Of course, sir. My most sincere apologies.

Then again, there was something to be said for having at least one person in your life that don't talk back to you. Tony grumbled a curse under his breath and got back to work, humming a nondescript tune to himself.

Hid workshop door slid open, and Natasha walked in. "Hey Tony, you got a minute? There's something the team has to do tomorrow."

...

There was a lot to be said for churches. Big. Nice. Clean. Good for weddings.

That was all Tony could really think of, though.

Clint and Natasha had somehow convinced Steve that a little visit to the "kidnapping church" would be a good idea. Good for public relations, they said. JARVIS agreed. Tony didn't care if JARVIS agreed. He didn't want to be there, but he was, wasting a Sunday morning listening to a lot of religious droning because Steve wanted to reassure the public that he was okay.

The whole team had come along for the sake of security. Tony and Thor were actually comfortably settled in on the roof, watching for external threats, but with comms in they could hear most of what was happening inside. And what was happening, Tony decided, was exhausting. Poetic, in some ways, possibly even moving at times, but exhausting.

Quite a lot like Steve, come to think of it. The thought made him chuckle.

"If you're laughing at the service, Stark, so help me..." Steve said quietly. Tony stifled his laugh and rolled his eyes.

"Cap, don't worry, I'm not that insensitive. I was just laughing at you."

Steve's sigh was audible even through comms.

"Leave him alone," Natasha murmured. "And both of you, relax."

Tony obeyed, if only because JARVIS had informed him that Natasha had bought green hair dye the other day. Better safe than sorry.

"So far I'm not seeing anything suspicious," said Clint. "I'm not surprised though; two strikes in the same place would be a bit much, particularly with Rumlow out of business."

"Good." Tony nodded. He really didn't want anyone getting captured and tortured again; even once was too much. "The service almost done?" he grumbled, after a moment.

"Yes, it is, now shut up," Steve growled.

Tony could hear Natasha stifle a giggle, and bit back a rude retort. Going off comms for a moment, he muttered, "JARVIS, let me have a look at any new messages, will you?"

"Of course, sir." A scrolling list of emails, texts, and phone message transcripts ticked past his eyes. JARVIS had highlighted what he considered the most important messages. One government message stood out more than the others.

"What's that one, J?"

"I don't know, sir. It's encrypted. You have to open it with an eye scan," explained the AI.

Tony raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Government messages were usually boring and relatively excusable. Maybe not this one. "Alright, let me see it."

The message was an email, surprisingly to-the-point for a government letter. The contents could've used some softening, though; Tony got a sick feeling in his stomach as he read them.

_"Mr. Stark,_

_It has come to the attention of Homeland Security that you are harboring a terrorist agent guilty of numerous crimes against freedom, democracy, and humanity. We understand that Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was previously a war hero and a friend of Captain Rogers, and perhaps for that reason you feel justified in sheltering him. However, he must be turned over to government custody and given a chance to defend himself in a court of law according to his crimes._

_We expect a response by 14:15 EST tomorrow._

_With respect,_

_General Thaddeus Ross_

"Well shit," Tony said quietly. "Comms open again, JARVIS."

"Sir, perhaps it would be better to wait until the service has concluded-"

"JARVIS, comms. Now."

This was really, really bad. This was part of why Tony had begun worrying about housing Bucky at the Tower, and he honestly wasn't sure they shouldn't just hand Bucky over. He knew Steve would hate hearing that, but honestly, were they really equipped to deal with him? Sure, their security was probably the best, as was his other technology, but none of them knew how to cope with Bucky's strange behavior and thought patterns and trauma and memories. Maybe the government could get him some good psychologists and fix him up and then Steve would have his best friend back and Tony wouldn't have to tiptoe around his own Tower.

But he didn't like the idea of a trial where Bucky was entirely out of their custody. The government wouldn't have access to their information, and that would almost certainly end in a conviction. They would misunderstand everything and execute him or some shit. Tony didn't want that to happen; Bucky might be a little crazy and a lot scary and kind of weird but he was, in a way, part of the team now. And he was innocent, which was rather important.

"Steve, guys, we have an emergency and we need to deal with it now. I'm sorry, really, but I just got an urgent government message. They know."

Steve answered, voice low and hoarse. "Know what?"

"Take your best guess, Rogers. We need to figure this out; we have a little over twenty four hours to respond." Tony heard the sound of mumbled apologies from the various team members as they, presumably, left their seats. "JARVIS, I want you to start compiling every bit of information we have on Barnes' brainwashing and Hydra's tactics. I need hard copies, proof. Just in case this shit does end up going to court."

"This seems to be a rather premature measure, sir," JARVIS said.

"I'm starting early. We'll need a lot of proof if we want to have any chance of keeping Bucky safe." Tony still wasn't sure he wanted Bucky to stick around the Tower. But he did know that unless he and the others were involved, Bucky had no chance at all. The guy was only barely starting to act like an autonomous human being; there was no way a court would come to the right conclusion about him.

The team came out of the church fairly quickly, faces expressing varying degrees of concern. Steve looked surprisingly calm, considering the news Tony had just shared. Either he'd gotten some sort of inner peace thing from that service or he was really deeply terrified. Not that it mattered either way; it was just kind of nice not to see Steve having a nervous breakdown for once.

He and Thor flew down to the parking lot to meet them. The quinjet they'd taken to get here was sitting on the church's soccer fields (they were really only called that because of the rusty old soccer goals in them) in stealth mode. They all walked towards it as they talked.

"Okay, specifics," Natasha said. "What exactly happened?"

"Got an encrypted email from General Ross" - Bruce scowled upon hearing the name and shook his head - "telling me that they know we're harboring a terrorist and while they understand why we might have decided to do that, we have to hand him over for them to lock up and put on trial for his crimes. They expect a response by 2:15 tomorrow afternoon.

"Shit." Steve sighed and shook his head. "How do they know?"

"Rumlow," Clint said, after a pause. "Damn it, we should never have let that bastard live."

"They believed him?" Tony asked, incredulously. What kind of idiot believed anything Brock Rumlow said?

Apparently the governmental kind.

Steve snorted. "The government isn't exactly our biggest fan, Tony. We might obey their laws, but really that's only because it suits us. You have a history of doing whatever you want, regardless of anyone's advice. Natasha is a former KGB agent. Thor isn't even from this world. They can't control us, and that makes them not trust us. Besides, if Rumlow gave them a reason to look, they'd be more likely to find evidence that Bucky was with us."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "This all coming from you, Mr. Perfect?" he huffed. "The government loves us because you're the boss and you always want to do what they say."

Steve smirked a little and Clint laughed. "Are you kidding, Tony? Anyone who's actually studied this guy's life knows that he does what he wants and doesn't really give a shit about the powers that be."

Tony wasn't sure how to respond to that. His whole life his father had held Captain Steve Rogers up as the best man he'd ever known, but he'd seemed to imply that the Captain was too uptight and strict. Tony's own first impression of Steve had been similar. Now that he thought about it, though, he realized that to Howard, lots of people had probably seemed too uptight. A Catholic military man more so. And Tony, well... Tony had met Steve just out of the ice, forced to wear a skintight colorful suit, everyone he loved dead (except Aunt Peggy, but what was happening to her was probably worse), brought face to face with the most dramatic changes of the 21st century... Any man would be grumpy about all that.

Not that Tony thought Steve was any less boring because of that realization.

"Yeah, well, I haven't seen it yet," Tony grumbled lamely.

"You're about to," Cap said, stepping into the quinjet and putting his Righteous Face (TM) on. "Because there's no way in hell I'm letting them take Bucky."

Tony held back his protest, knowing that this precise moment would be a bad time to bring up the possibility of a compromise with the government. Steve would probably murder him if he suggested that now.

So he sighed and went to the front of the vehicle, sitting down to pilot them home. This situation was going to require some thought.

* * *

At any other time, Steve would've been furious. Terrified. Possibly even blaming Tony somehow. But now, having just come out of the church, he couldn't find it in himself to worry too much. Yeah, this was bad, and yeah, it needed to be addressed and fast, but he felt a certain sense of peace about it. They would figure this out, and if they did not, everything would still come out alright.

He could tell Natasha and Sam were staring at him the whole way back, waiting for him to say something more. But he didn't want to discuss things more till they were back to the Tower; this wasn't a conversation they could afford to leave Bucky out of.

"You doing alright, Steve?" Sam asked.

Steve smiled slightly and shrugged. "Yeah. As well as can be expected."

Sam's shared look with Natasha was so disbelieving that Steve had to fight not to laugh. Laughing, in this particular situation, probably wouldn't be in the best taste. Still, he couldn't bring himself to worry too much about the outcome.

Unless they tried to execute or incarcerate his best friend. Then he might have a thing or two to say about _that_.

They touched down on Avengers' Tower's landing pad not much later, and Steve was the first out of the quinjet, as if he was afraid someone else would explain the problem at hand to Bucky before he could. He vaguely registered Sam walking behind him to his right; he was focused on something else.

"JARVIS, would you tell Bucky I want to talk to him, please?" he asked.

"He's in the common area, Captain Rogers."

Steve nodded and hurried inside, scanning the indoor space for his friend. It took him a moment to notice Bucky; the assassin was sitting on the floor, arm wrapped around his legs, looking exhausted.

"Hey James," he said, walking over.

"Hey Rog- Steve," Bucky answered stiffly. He wouldn't meet Steve's eyes, and Steve frowned a little, noting that his hand was shaking.

"You okay?" he asked carefully, sitting down on one of the couches.

Bucky nodded once. "Fine."

He wasn't, of course, but Steve didn't press the matter – they had something else to discuss. "We have a problem," he said.

"What?" Bucky's eyes went sharp with suspicion, and he stretched out his legs and sat up straighter.

"We got word from the American government. Rumlow told them you were here and they want us to give you up to their custody for a trial."

Bucky was standing before Steve knew what was happening, and he had to grab his friend's wrist to stop him running off. "Hey. Chill."

"They'll kill me," he snapped. "I'm not gonna 'chill' when you're sending me to my death, Rogers."

Steve sighed and shook his head. "We aren't giving you up unless we have no other choice, James. Let me finish, will you?" Bucky appraised him a moment, then sat down with a mumbled apology. "They want an answer tomorrow. We can't just blow them off, but we can't turn you in either. We need a good third option."

"Any trial's gonna get me convicted," Bucky retorted. "There is no good third option."

Steve ran a hand through his hair, huffing a frustrated breath. "Not if we got you a good lawyer and we had time to gather all the evidence we could. You know what you did wasn't your fault – Hydra completely stole your ability to fight them."

"Thanks for the recap, Steve," Bucky sneered. "I know what they did." He didn't appear to believe Steve's assurance that evidence would help them, so the Captain closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

"Well, regardless, we're going to come up with something. You'll be okay."

"Nice of you to say so. I was real worried there for a bit."

Steve flinched and got up to go to his suite and change out of his shoes and jeans. Sam clapped his shoulder sympathetically as he made his way out of the room. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Steve shrugged. He was, mostly, although Bucky's cynicism and bitterness was wearing on him.

And he was a little worried that he was right and no amount of evidence they could gather would convince an American jury that they should let the Winter Soldier go unpunished for his many crimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama llamaaaa! Government interference. You knew it had to happen.
> 
> I'm sorry if that governmental letter is totally ridiculous and unrealistic, I just made all that stuff up. ;)


	32. Defendant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How did other people - people like Denniston or Dimble - find it so easy to saunter through the world with all their muscles relaxed and a careless eye roving the horizon, bubbling over with fancy and humor, sensitive to beauty, not continually on their guard and not needing to be?" - C.S. Lewis, 'That Hideous Strength'

James made a concerted effort to ignore Steve's obvious frustration, unconsciously gritting his teeth against the stupid urge to _say you're sorry, you damn idiot, he didn't do anything, get off your ass and talk to him_. But that wasn't him anymore, that wasn't what he did. He shook his head, and, with an irritated movement, shoved a few loose strands of hair out of his face. Sometimes he wanted to cut it, but shorter hair was what Bucky had, and Steve didn't need any more reasons to see James as the same person.

James didn't want to be Bucky. Bucky had lost too much. Bucky would feel guilty for the things he'd done. Bucky put everyone else's needs before his own. And James didn't want any of that. He had enough flashbacks and nightmares and anger without the pain of missing who he had been.

He knew there were still gaps in his memory. That was more or less by choice. Sometimes he felt the memories trying to come back, but he wouldn't let them. Those were the brainwashing memories, and he knew that those would hurt. They were the kind of memories that would change how he saw things and he didn't want that. He was comfortable enough as he was; the memories would only make everything worse.

The threat of a trial, though, terrified him. Because he knew that to have any chance of coming out of a trial alive, he would have to remember everything. He'd have to dredge up every sickening memory from seventy years of brainwashing and torture and try to prove that he'd been helpless when he wanted nothing more than to forget he ever had been. They would tell him he was lucky to be alive, they'd think it was good when the jury started believing he was a victim, and finally, when they declared that he wasn't responsible for those crimes because he'd had his free will taken from him, the Avengers would call it a victory and he'd be trapped again. Stuck with the terror that he could have done something more to fight, that somehow he hadn't tried hard enough, that if he'd only done something differently he could have saved lives. Stuck being the only person in the world who was afraid to tell himself "you did all you could." He didn't want that to be true.

Because if he did everything he could and that wasn't enough, then what? How was he ever supposed to get away from Hydra's damn tentacles now if he couldn't before?

Just before the team got back, he'd had a flashback. Torturing someone – a girl, he thought, with brown hair – and how she screamed and how he knew this was bad, he knew it, he just couldn't stop any of it. He tried – he even tried to help her escape – but it never did any good.

None of it ever did any damn good.

He didn't realize how absorbed he'd been in his thoughts until they were broken into. "Hey." He flinched and looked up, meeting Natalia's green eyes. Immediately he looked back down. He was still disconcerted by the violent, conflicting sea of emotions that battered at him when he saw her now. It was a little terrifying and made him feel ashamed. "You okay?" she asked.

If he heard that question many more times he was going to scream. No, he wasn't okay. He wasn't ever okay. What the hell did they expect him to say to that? "Oh yeah, I'm great," he snorted bitterly.

"James…" she sighed, sitting down next to him. He tensed and quickly looked up. Clint was standing nearby, listening. James tried to communicate with his eyes, the best he could, "please get her away from me." Clint pursed his lips uncomfortably and didn't move or speak.

"What?" he said, turning to look her full in the face, almost defiantly _(you don't scare me – except you do)_. "What do you want?"

She switched to Russian and he almost got up and ran, the rough syllables, from her lips, all too familiar and provoking a rush of memories. _"Ya prosti."_

He laughed again, looking away and shaking his head. He wanted to hit something. "You're sorry? You're sorry. That's… That's great, isn't it? Makes it all better."

Natalia scowled, and the Avengers within hearing range went still and tense. _"That's the best I can do, James,"_ she said, still in Russian. He didn't want to speak Russian. He didn't want to speak to her at all. _"I'm trying."_

 _"I don't want your apology,"_ he retorted. _"I don't need an apology from you. I need you to… I need…"_ He needed her to stop looking so familiar. He needed her to get the hell away from him because she was just so _her_. He owed her an apology, an explanation, a thousand other things, because what had happened in the Red Room was _so far_ from being okay, but all he could do was run away. _"I don't want any of those memories,"_ he said, instead of all the other things he should have said.

Natalia – _no, it's Natasha now, James, have to remember that_ – sighed and nodded. _"I know. I don't blame you. Look, I don't really want them either, but we're stuck with what happened. Neither of us is the same person we were, so you don't have to keep avoiding me."_

_"I can't."_

Natasha raised an eyebrow but seemed to understand what he meant because she smirked a little and replied with, _"I have been living in the same Tower as you for months now remembering everything the whole time. If I can deal with it, so can you."_

James almost laughed at her mocking grin, but he couldn't, so he just nodded and allowed himself a small, answering smile. _"Ya prosti,"_ he said. Funny how much easier that was to say when they were both smiling.

Her eyes softened and grew serious. "Thank you."

James didn't know how to react to her sincerity, so he just nodded and looked away, taking note of the rest of the Avengers: Stark lazily getting lunch for himself and Banner in the kitchen, Wilson trying unsuccessfully to convince Clint to play pool with him, Thor lounging against a kitchen counter munching on a bagel. Something about all those things made him feel… warm. Safe. He knew there was probably a word for it, but his mind didn't supply it. He hated it when things were like that: difficult to name because he didn't remember feeling them, except dimly.

"Hey, James?" Wilson called suddenly.

"What?" He hoped this wasn't going to be another stupid discussion about his feelings. Wilson always had that kind of talk with him.

"You wanna play pool?"

James stood uncertainly, surprised that the man had offered. "I'm not sure I can," he said, holding up his right hand. He'd played before at bars during his time separated from Hydra, gambling to keep himself clothed and fed, but at the time he'd had two arms.

Sam shrugged. "You could try. I could loan you a hand, too, if you needed it."

It wouldn't be so bad, James thought. He was good with angles and balance and aim and holding things steady. Maybe he could make it work with one hand. So he smiled a little and nodded. "Alright, I'll play."

…

Forty-five minutes or so later, James was losing the game of pool, but not too badly. Holding the pool stick with one hand had proved easier than it perhaps would have without his serum or his training. The balance of the cue was tricky, but he'd figured out the best place to hold it to maintain control and had been gamely working to keep up with Sam's neat strokes ever since. It was frustrating, but he hadn't had a proper challenge in a long time, and this was something he could work on without worrying that he'd hurt someone.

"Hey guys?" James turned. Natasha had left shortly after he started playing pool, but she was back now and looking somber. "Everybody head to the conference room. We need to start figuring out what we're going to do about this problem as soon as possible. The sooner we can work on a solution the better equipped we'll be to handle this."

James looked at Clint, almost wanting reassurance; the archer stood from his seat by the kitchen table where he'd been filling out some paperwork and nodded. "Right." He caught James' eye and nodded firmly. His support, whether or not it would prove to be worth anything, gave James a sense of relief.

He followed the Avengers, uncomfortable, as they headed to the elevator and took it a few floors down. He took careful note of the expressions on their faces, still not entirely convinced that they wouldn't just give him up. After all, they were the Avengers. Most of them were Americans. They had a duty to their government, and he knew he wasn't exactly easy to have around. And if Stark knew what James had done to his parents, things would only get worse. Hopefully that would never have to come to light.

Steve, Stark, Banner, Simmons, and two somewhat unfamiliar people were waiting for them in cushioned black chairs. One of the strangers was a woman with dark brown hair pulled severely away from her face, her eyes and posture hard and stern. James noted that she had the same vacant expression that Natasha wore when she wanted to mask her emotions. The other person was a black man with a worried frown and a receding hairline. He was fairly tall and lean, but he stood like a soldier. He gave James a suspicious, appraising glance, and James scowled. Suspicion was his greatest obstacle in this; how was he supposed to stay free if the only people willing to protect him didn't trust him?

He hesitantly pulled out a chair at the table, near where Steve was sitting, and sat down. The others joined him soon, and not for the first time, he had a strange sense of being part of something unified and special and, most importantly, nothing at all like Hydra. Unfortunately, from the way they were all looking at him, everything wasn't as nice and familial as all that. After all, they were there to decide his fate.

Stark nodded in satisfaction and stood. "Glad everyone's here. Guess we better get started, then." He waved a hand at the screen on the wall and it lit up with an official-looking email. James read the contents of the email and got a chill, but he masked it with a sardonic smile.

"Aren't they thoughtful," he muttered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clint give him an amused, appreciative look.

"So, what are we gonna do about this?" Stark asked, sitting back down. "Because as much as I'd like to give the government the finger and leave it at that, I don't think that's an option."

Steve wrinkled his nose, and James almost laughed because he knew that meant "why not?" But instead he looked down, examining the tiled floor as if he found it fascinating, even though he wasn't really seeing it.

"Can we all agree we aren't going to hand him over?" Clint asked. James looked up to see that the archer's eyes were hard and defiant, like he was ready to fight anyone who disagreed.

The man who James didn't know took that challenge. "No, we can't." James gritted his teeth and shifted towards the edge of his chair. "We have to look at this objectively – our safest option all around is to do as the government says."

"Not necessarily," Natasha said tersely. "We could hire a good defense lawyer and agree to a trial. Both sides could give a little, but we'd keep official custody of James so we can ensure he gets a fair chance."

"She's right, Rhodey," Wilson added, nodding. "They don't know half of what we know, and at this point I don't think they much care. They probably have half a dozen other governments breathing down their necks, and the American people are gonna want to see if they can actually handle these kinds of threats. If they just let us push them around on this or if they let Barnes go, they'll look weak, but if they try to come down on us too hard they'll be in a mess they can't get out of. We have some room to work with as long as we play this right. We could still get James out of this alive and maybe even free."

The other black man, Rhodey, crossed his arms and his seemingly permanent frown deepened. By his sharp tone as he answered, it was clear that he was already feeling defensive. "Excuse me for asking, but do we even want that? We aren't equipped to deal with the stuff in his head. You don't even have a college degree, much less a license to practice psychology."

Wilson scowled. Rhodey's words had evidently struck a nerve.

"We can't afford to antagonize the government anymore," Rhodey pressed. "They're already watching you closely after that stunt you pulled six months ago."

"You mean that stunt where we defeated Hydra and saved your life?"

"Calm down, Sam, it's not that we aren't grateful," Stark said. James glanced up from where he'd resumed staring at the floor; Stark was tapping his fingers on the table in a restless, random pattern. "We just need to consider all our options."

"So, what, we're supposed to put him at risk again just because the politicians crook their fingers?" Steve's jaw was tense, the muscle ticking. He looked as if he was barely holding back a scathing remark or two. "I'm not considering that option until we've exhausted all our others first."

And so it went for the next hour or so, with suggestions voiced and quickly shot down. Either they gave in to the government's demands too much, or they didn't give enough. There were too many differing opinions for any reasonable suggestion to last long. James intentionally zoned out for most of the discussion, but as it grew more heated near the end of the first hour, he took advantage of a lull in the argument to voice his own opinion.

"I could just leave."

Everyone turned to look at him, and he clenched his hand into a fist to keep himself from shrinking away from their stares. "What do you mean?" Steve asked.

"You're all arguing over what to do with me, and I get it, I'm a liability, so maybe it'd be best for all involved if I struck out on my own." Several of the Avengers looked down, ashamed, at this. "You guys could make up some bullshit about me escaping, and I can get off the radar for another seventy years or so. I managed to avoid both you and Hydra for four months, and that was _with_ all the programming in my head. I can do it again. And anyway, as helpful as all of you have been, I'd really rather be on my own." He avoided looking at Steve after he said that; he knew if he did he would see hurt and disappointment. The Captain still thought if he waited long enough Bucky would somehow come back, which was why James wanted to leave.

"The government would know that was bullshit," the dark-haired woman, Maria, said. "This is Stark Tower. It houses seven of the world's most powerful people and has arguably the best security system on the planet. You couldn't get out unless you had help from somewhere. Either we'd take the blame and be under fire for outright defying the government, or there'd be an international manhunt for you because they'd think Hydra had gotten you back."

"It's the best option I've heard this whole time," James retorted. "And I think I've got a right to choose what I do at this point."

"I'd agree, James," Natasha said, her voice neutral and careful, "But what we decide affects all of us, not just you. You might be able to manage without anyone else, but if you suddenly disappear, that gets all of us in trouble."

He couldn't go through a trial. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't do any of this except leave and they wouldn't let him. He scowled. "I don't want to go to court."

"That's the only thing we can all agree on, James," Banner said quietly. "I'm sorry you don't want to, but the only way you can really ensure a future for yourself in this country or any other is to go through the legal system. There's a chance you could live the rest of your life free, not in jail or a psych ward or on the run but actually free. Isn't that worth the risk?"

"You don't understand," James argued, fighting to keep the anger (and the underlying fear) out of his voice. "I won't go to court. I'm not going to do that. I can't."

"Why not?"

The Avengers all looked disconcerted. Simmons shouldn't have asked him that. The others had probably at least been going to try to be subtle, but outright asking him – he couldn't stop the laugh that clawed out of his throat and lunged at her, harsh and raking and derisive. He shrugged sarcastically, gesturing expansively with his one hand.

"Why don't I want to go sit in front of a bunch of political assholes and try to convince them that I'm harmless? Why don't I want to dredge up every detail of my personal hell for people who want to prove it wasn't as bad as I remember it? Why don't I want to help prove that I was too _fucking weak_ " – he saw Steve give him a warning look, which in itself was familiar and only made him angrier – "to keep them from violating me in every way humanly possible? Gosh, I don't know, Simmons. Maybe I just want to keep what little bit of human dignity I have left."

The agent winced, just a little, and looked away, her jaw and mouth loosening and trembling in what he thought might be a precursor to tears. He tried not to hate himself because of that. What did any of them expect from him?

 _(He knew what they expected and it was all too much, too heavy. Even those of them who'd never known him expected him to be something different. Something better. He was supposed to be a hero, a good man, a soldier. They wanted another Avenger. They wanted Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, the Howling Commando from the museums and textbooks. They wanted someone different,_ expected _someone different. But all he felt comfortable showing them was the bitter, angry wounds that burned but also scared people away, the scars that would never stop hurting but at least made everyone leave him alone. He couldn't summon the energy to be anything other than what he felt.)_

"Sorry," he muttered, even though he didn't mean it. Because however much he wished he didn't care, he didn't want to hurt these people, not even Rhodey. He just wanted to be left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's fairly angry and bitter right now, obviously. I didn't foresee having to write him like this so I hope you guys can follow my reasoning as to why he's this upset. If any of you have issue with it or don't understand, I'd be happy to discuss it with you. I love talking about my writing. ;)
> 
> I originally published this chapter on POW/MIA Recognition Day, and now today is Veteran's Day. A brief reminder to respect your local veterans.
> 
> Please review!


	33. Avocados

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There comes a time in your life when you can no longer put off choosing. You have to choose one path or the other. You can live safe and be protected by people just like you, or you can stand up and be a leader for what is right. Always, remember this: People never remember the crowd; they remember the one person that had the courage to say and do what no one would do." - Shannon L. Alder

Steve had not thought he could be angry with Bucky anymore. So much of what Bucky did now wasn't his fault, and Steve didn't really blame him for most of his outbursts. But here and now, he was angry at James, and he didn't bother trying to disguise it. There was a lot of disappointment mixed with the anger: how could Bucky- James be so harsh with Simmons? She'd just wanted to help and he'd been scathing, cruel, bitter. Never mind that what he'd said answered their questions thoroughly and never mind that his reasons for being afraid of a trial were legitimate.

Steve could handle James being angry at him, what he couldn't deal with was this selfish, mindless lashing out at people. Not just because it was so unlike Bucky but also because the people he said those things to were generally innocent of anything beyond trying (if clumsily) to help him.

So Steve cut the discussion short not long after James' outburst, claiming a headache, and strode out, curling his hands into fists in his pockets. For once, no one came after him, not even Sam. He was okay with that. It wasn't okay for him to be angry, was it? Bucky wasn't going to be the same as he used to be and anyway, he'd been through a lot lately. He'd get better. Steve couldn't, shouldn't blame him for being bitter.

He shouldn't, but he did. Bitterness was one thing, but making everyone else miserable by extension was another.

He didn't care if he was being too hard on his friend. James or Bucky or the Soldier or whoever he was had no right to hurt Simmons and Natasha - Steve knew how much Natasha hated James' choice to push her away – or anyone else in this Tower.

...

"Their names are Matt Murdock and Franklin Nelson," Natasha said. "They're the best we can find who're actually clean. They apparently have the potential to be one of the best defense firms in the country, but they don't get a lot of recognition because their firm is new and they do all of their work in Hell's Kitchen."

"Can we trust them?" Steve asked.

"It seems so. Murdock's past is pretty ordinary, except for an accident that blinded him as a boy and the fact that his father was murdered, and he seems to have a history of deliberately setting himself up against some of the darker powers of Hell's Kitchen, which is a dangerous business for any lawyer to be in, much less a blind one with a young firm. Nelson is clean too. He didn't graduate with all the honors Murdock did, but it seems that the only reason he didn't was because he liked the part scene a bit too much."

It was a few days after the government had issued their ultimatum and the Avengers had drafted a terse but loaded response, which read in part:

"We will be keeping custody of Sergeant Barnes and finding him a defense lawyer. If you would like, we can send in a weekly report so that you know the public is safe. You may continue to correspond with us over the next week to work out the details of the trial."

Tony, who had helped Natasha write it, was still upset they hadn't made it more insulting. He'd wanted to say "so you feel like you're doing a good job" instead of "so that you know the public is safe," but naturally, Natasha ignored that suggestion.

James had all but disappeared after the solution was eventually agreed upon. Apparently he'd accepted the idea that they couldn't get out of doing a trial, but was still upset by that fact. JARVIS reported that he was staying in his suite for the most part and had several nightmares.

Steve didn't know what to do about James anymore. He felt guilty, but he also knew something had to change because things couldn't stay as they were, particularly if James was going to have to go to court.

"We should go ahead and contact them," Steve said, carefully, glancing between Nat and Clint. "If you think they're a good choice."

Clint nodded, not even hesitating, and said, "Sure thing, chief. Told you it was a good idea, Nat."

"Did you have doubts, Natasha?" Steve asked. Her intuition, whether it was because she was a woman or because she was an assassin or some combination of the two factors, was uncanny and rarely wrong. If she felt unsure about talking to these lawyers, he wanted to know why.

"Sort of," she admitted. "Their record is good, but they almost seem to attract violent crime. One of their clients, who got charged with a pretty brutal murder, committed suicide almost immediately after the case left court. One of their clients was murdered, another almost was. A journalist who was working with them was murdered too. There's a vigilante in Hell's Kitchen who personally went up against some of the same people they did, which may or may not have anything to do with them. It just all feels a little off to me. I can't definitively draw any connections, but there are an awful lot of coincidences and I don't like it."

"I still say you're reading a bit too far into it," Clint argued. "They work in Hell's Kitchen and make enemies of all the rich, secretly evil businessmen. It's not that hard to explain all the violence."

Natasha frowned and shrugged. "I know, I just… It's strange."

Steve sighed. "Either way, they're our best bet, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's get them up here."

Natasha sighed but nodded decisively. "Alright, Steve. Thanks for your input. JARVIS, will you send the firm a message?"

"Of course, Miss Romanoff, but I must inform you that they are strangely selective with the cases they take. It is likely that a large monetary incentive would be beneficial, as well as full disclosure of who exactly they'll be defending and against what charges."

"This information is too sensitive to tell to a couple of defense lawyers on the off chance they'll take the case," Natasha protested.

Steve sighed. "If they've been screened, we should be able to trust their discretion, at least. Anyway, since we're going to court, everyone's going to know Bucky's here soon. We'll just have to risk it."

Nat shook her head, pursing her lips, but didn't disagree. "Go ahead and send them the basic file we have on Barnes and explain the situation, J."

"Of course, Miss Romanoff," JARVIS answered.

Steve sighed and nodded. "Great. Um, Nat, would you want to spar with me?"

"Steve, we sparred yesterday. We've talked about this, you can't put this much pressure on yourself. I know you can handle it, but you're already a good fighter and it's good to take at least a few days off."

"We can skip it tomorrow, then," he said obstinately. If he didn't find something to do he'd end up compulsively cleaning his suite or wasting his energy on a punching bag again. Neither option ever helped him much, but sparring with Natasha did.

She looked at him carefully, then nodded. "Okay. Do you need anything, Clint?"

"Nope," he said. "You two go beat each other up. I'm gonna watch Jurassic Park with Thor and Sam."

Steve smiled, imagining Thor's potential reaction to the action-packed film, and followed Natasha out the conference room door.

…

Nelson and Murdock were harder to hire than Steve had expected. Murdock's reply was terse and to the point; he said thank you for the offer but he couldn't possibly take such a demanding case at this time.

Tony gave the okay to offer double the payment, although he grumbled that it was way too much to spend on a couple of lawyers.

Considering the case those lawyers would be taking on, though, Steve figured it was more than fair, so they sent another message. Natasha wrote it herself this time, mentioning that she was sure that there were other lawyers in the city who could take their cases. "If there's anything else causing your hesitance to accept the job," she added. "We'd be happy to assist in any way we can. But you're the best, most ethical defense lawyer we can find, and we need both to acquit Sergeant Barnes."

The second response took longer than the first (which had arrived only an hour after they asked for their services) and took a more cautious approach. Maybe the firm could take the case, if they could have a few days to conclude a few items of business.

It was arranged that Tony would send his private car to bring both Nelson and Murdock to the Tower on Saturday, and from that moment on, all the Avengers who were able began compiling evidence in Bucky's favor.

The difficulty was that so much of their knowledge of Hydra's brainwashing and treatment of Bucky was based on Bucky's own account. They had Natasha's hard-won file from Russia, which Steve had looked through so many times he knew it by heart, they had the scans from Bucky's arm that showed how it was set to kill him if he escaped, they had the security tapes form Rumlow's attack… but precious little else. Natasha and Clint spent hours and hours closeted in the conference room, digging through the files Natasha had dumped on the internet with a fine-toothed comb in hopes of pulling out some of the deeply-encrypted Winter Soldier files.

Steve spent most of his time cross-examining Bucky for more specific memories, trying to find the locations of old bases so they could search those for evidence, which was a tense and unpleasant task for both of them. Steve was still a bit angry at Bucky for being so harsh to Simmons, and Bucky was obviously still angry that a trial had to take place at all.

Simmons and Bruce took more scans of Bucky's brain, which had apparently almost entirely healed. Bruce explained that these scans could be compared with the old scans from Bucky's first arrival to both explain why Hydra had to constantly wipe him and to show that he was in much better condition now.

Bucky didn't look at Simmons at all throughout the entire process. The only indication that he was listening to her and Bruce was the occasional terse nod. Steve took Simmons aside briefly afterwards.

"I'm so sorry about what James said, Simmons," he said, sighing. "It isn't your fault, honestly. He's just… We have to be careful how we ask him things these days. He's just angry at everything and he lashed out at you."

"I know," she said quietly, fidgeting. She looked guilty. "I'm just so sorry. I didn't mean to upset him."

Steve took a deep breath to control a surge of anger, frustrated with himself for not being able to let the issue go. What was done was done, and he shouldn't be angry at Bucky anymore. "It wasn't your fault," he insisted. "He's been through a lot and it's messed him up a lot. He overreacted, that's all. Don't beat yourself up."

She smiled a little and nodded. "Thank you, Captain Rogers- Steve. I'll do my best."

"Well, that's good enough for me," he said kindly. "How are things coming with his arm?"

In an instant her face lit up with a proud grin, and her accented voice pitched up with excitement. "We've almost finished it. It's a very complicated process and we're going to need to do some very careful surgery, but James should be able to have his new arm in a few weeks. Tony thinks we should make him two arms, one that looks like a regular flesh arm and then, when we get the metal, one like his old one."

"That's a good idea," Steve said, his spirits lifted by her smile and enthusiastic explanation. "You guys are doing great."

"Thanks." She ducked her head and tucked her hair behind her ear, and he grinned at her blush before heading out of the lab to talk to Sam.

...

All the Avengers, Simmons, Bucky, Pepper, and Maria congregated in the conference room on Saturday, waiting for the lawyers to arrive. Only Tony was absent because he was waiting downstairs to bring Nelson and Murdock upstairs.

Bucky was fidgeting, clearly nervous, and Steve didn't feel much better. Natasha had seated herself near him, and if her hard expression was anything to go by, she was still suspicious of the lawyers, particularly Murdock. Everyone else just looked bored of waiting.

Except Pepper. She was reviewing something on a clipboard, occasionally straightening her blazer with an impatient air. Steve couldn't help but feel a bit relieved when he looked at her; she understood business and legal jargon better than he ever could and she would be able to keep up with the lawyers better than he could.

The conference door hissed open, and Steve turned in his seat to face it. Tony came in, already talking animatedly about "how glad we all are to have you here," and behind him walked two men who were as different in appearance as Steve and Tony were.

Steve had seen their pictures, so he knew that the blind man with dark hair and a scruffy beard was Murdock and the somewhat over-awed looking blond man whose elbow he was holding was Nelson. Nelson was slightly shorter than his partner and obviously a good deal more impressed by the Tower and Tony's showmanship. Murdock looked summarily unimpressed, and whether that was due to professionalism, his blindness, or his personality, Steve wasn't sure. He stood, along with Natasha, and made his way over to them.

"Hello," he said politely, shaking Nelson's hand. He wasn't sure if he should try to shake Murdock's, but thankfully the blind lawyer held out a hand, which Steve took. The man had a firm grip.

"I'm Steve Rogers," he said, "and this is Natasha Romanoff."

"Hey," she said shortly. "Thanks for coming."

"No problem," Nelson said, grinning. "Nice to meet you guys."

"If you'd like to get to work, there are a couple chairs right here," Tony said, and Nelson nodded, directing Murdock to one of the chairs. They both sat down, and Murdock quietly and efficiently folded up his cane and set it on the table.

Steve didn't like that he couldn't see Murdock's eyes. It was so much harder to get a read of someone's character and emotion when their eyes weren't visible. He tried not to let that bother him too much.

"Mr. Murdock, Mr. Nelson, thank you very much for giving us your time," said Pepper, nodding to Nelson. "I'm Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries, and myself and Captain Rogers will be explaining the situation, if that's alright."

"Would we be able to meet everyone in the room?" Murdock asked.

"Of course." Pepper didn't skip a beat. "Guys…"

The team started introducing themselves as briefly as they could. Steve nodded for Bucky to speak last, but his friend didn't appear to want to say anything.

Nelson glanced at Steve, then at Bucky, frowning a little. He didn't say anything to Murdock about it. The dark-haired lawyer just waited, facing towards the last person to have spoken.

"I'm James," Bucky finally said, begrudgingly. "Nice to meet you."

"Pleased to meet you as well, James," Murdock said smoothly. Then he turned his head slightly in Steve's direction and asked, "My associate and I would like to speak to Sergeant Barnes alone, please, since he's the man we'll be defending."

Steve glanced nervously at Natasha, and she didn't have to even do anything to see she was saying "no way." He sighed. "We would prefer to avoid that. Maybe some other time, Mr. Murdock, but you have to understand this is an extremely delicate situation and, quite frankly, that's a risk we aren't willing to take."

He glanced at Bucky and was gratified to see that his friend didn't seem annoyed by his answer but, in fact, relieved.

"Of course, we understand," answered Nelson, nodding quickly.

Murdock's jaw tightened but he, too, nodded.

"Alright, for now I'll just walk you through the evidence we currently have, if I may," Pepper said politely. "There's a lot of information but not as much evidence as we would like, so this may take a little while."

"We're all ears," answered Nelson.

Murdock smiled.

The next two hours were spent relaying what they'd learned ever since they'd found the Soldier. Occasionally one of the lawyers would stop them to ask for clarification or to ask Bucky a question. For the most part, though, they listened in attentive silence to the information being relayed, and when at least it seemed like they were finished, Murdock stood up and nodded decisively, unfolding his cane. Nelson stood too. "You have the bones of a good case here," he said. "As long as you can get actual evidence of what Sergeant Barnes has told you, we could build a solid defense."

"Do you think that's doable?" Nelson asked, aiming his question at Steve.

Tony answered it. He looked bored out of his mind, so Steve didn't' really begrudge him the interruption. "Oh sure, no problem. We just have to get into some old Hydra bases that may or may not be abandoned or even wiped off the map for a very low probability of gain, and make sure we do it all legally or they won't accept our evidence. Oh yeah, and we have to find a way to get the Manchurian Candidate testifying without being triggered in the middle of his statements and their questions. No offense, James."

James snorted. "None taken."

"So basically nothing new," Natasha said wryly, smiling. "Besides, I think we might have an edge as far as the legality goes. Clint has been talking to Simmons' boss, and he says they'd like to have us on call to take out currently-occupied bases for them. We'd have access to Hydra rat-holes where it's more than likely they'll have some kind of useful intel. It may not all be related to the Winter Soldier program, but eventually we'll find something."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "I hadn't heard about that."

"Neither had I," Simmons said, then sighed. "Not that that's surprising, I mean, I'm only level 5…"

"Sounds good," Nelson said. "In the meantime, we can start pulling together what we already have. It would really be good if we could talk to the Sergeant like we would any other client" – he glanced at Bucky with a raised eyebrow – "but if that's not possible we can work around that."

Steve noted that Murdock seemed to be looking straight at Bucky, and he tried not to imagine what might be behind those glasses besides a blind pair of eyes. He shook his head at himself and smiled. "Thank you guys so much for your time. Do you want a car back to Hell's Kitchen, or-?"

"No." Murdock smiled too, and it was a bit of a strange, lopsided smile. Steve noted that Nelson seemed surprised by that decision. "If it's alright, I'd like to stick around for a while. It would be good to get to know our client and I have a few questions of my own."

"Sure thing. You can stay as long as you want, I just thought you might prefer to be home."

"Are you kidding?" Nelson snorted, grinning. "We have a case to work on in the most famous building in New York. We're staying."

Murdock's smile grew a bit before he reached out and took his partner's elbow. "Thank you for offering, Captain Rogers. Mr. Stark."

"Uh, no problem," Tony managed. "JARVIS, would you direct them to the common area please?"

The two lawyers exited the conference room led by JARVIS' very polite and specific explanations. The moment they were out of sight, Steve looked at Natasha and shook his head. "You're right, Nat," he sighed. "There's something off about him and it's not just his blindness either."

She winked at him. "You should know by know, Rogers. I'm always right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediate disclaimer: I haven't seen Daredevil beyond a few clips on YouTube. I got his personality with the help of the internet, my boyfriend, and the ever-helpful Selective scifi-junkie, and I'm crossing my fingers and hoping I don't screw up. Please tell me how I did so I can fix any messups next time. As far as timeline, this is right after Season 1 of Daredevil for Matt and Foggy, per the advice of a helpful person on Tumblr. Like everything else, they have now been yanked into my AU story and so it must be assumed that Hell's Kitchen is functioning fine without them.
> 
> Please comment!


	34. Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am a good soldier, a good officer. I believe in my country and my mission. I still believe in honor, but sand plugs my heart. It sifts through the holes in my brain. Some days I see the world in the green of night vision. Some days I see the heat. I blink and I forget why I walked into the room. I forget why I am driving on this road. The remembering takes up every breath until there is no room for today." - Laurie Halse Anderson, 'The Impossible Knife of Memory'

James didn't trust the lawyers, especially not Murdock, so as soon as they were gone he got up and marched out of the conference room, heading for the gym. He heard someone follow him (by the light, even sound of their steps he was fairly sure it was Natasha) but he deliberately ignored her. Just once, just every now and then, he wished they would leave him alone. Especially her and Steve. Sometimes he hated them both, if only because there was a part of him that could _never_ hate them.

Jarvis opened the gym door for him, as he always did, and James jogged over to the equipment to get a punching bag.

"Not you too," Natasha said, her voice amused and reproachful.

He scowled but didn't turn around, focusing on hefting the bag clumsily onto his good shoulder and carrying it over to the mat. "What do you mean?" He hung the bag on its hook and stood in front of it, taking a few deep breaths.

"Aren't you going to wrap your hand?" She was closer to him now. James tensed and rocked back on his heels.

"I can't. It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"Not really." He turned around and stuffed his hand in his pocket, thankful for their height difference. If she wasn't so much smaller than him he might be scared of her. (Who was he kidding? He was terrified of her.)

She looked at him for a minute, making him have to fight not to squirm or look away, then said lightly, "Steve does this too. Comes down here and beats up a punching bag when he's upset. He really shouldn't, and neither should you."

"What do you want me to do, spar you? That's not gonna happen." He wasn't doing that again. Ever.

"No. You could try talking, though. It wouldn't even have to be to me; I'm sure Sam or Clint would be happy to listen." She looked so confident and assured of her suggestion. Like she knew how it felt to have so many ghosts in her head, like she knew how it felt to be turned into a machine.

Only she did. He'd helped make her.

"Nobody wants to hear me whinin' about shit they can't change," he said shortly, curling his hand into a biting fist in his pocket, slumping. "You oughta know how that feels, _Natalia_."

She crossed her arms. "I never said it would change if you talked about it. It might just make things easier for you."

"Easier how? There's too much in here." He tapped his temple with his pointer finger impatiently. "I'm screwed up and that's my problem, not anybody else's." And he didn't want to tell them. Didn't want to have anything else tying him to them.

"Fine. But you shouldn't take it out on a punching bag, at least not without tape on your hand. Let me help."

James' brain screamed _no, don't, this is an awful idea_ , but he said, "Okay, but then you leave me alone."

"Then I leave you alone," Natasha agreed quietly. She turned and walked over to a small cabinet by the far wall, and James struggled to maintain his composure. The memories were tugging at him again, asking to pull him under. He wouldn't let them. Not again, not anymore. He was sick of them.

She was back in front of him before he knew it, a roll of protective tape in her hands, smiling. He tried to find something, nervousness, anger, disappointment, affection _(anything but that God please)_ , in her eyes, but there was nothing. She was closed to him, and he wasn't sure whether or not that was a relief.

"Give me your hand," she said, and he did, automatically. She took his hand in hers and started winding the tape around it, fingers soft on his palm, tape smooth and firm against his knuckles. Her head was bent so her hair slipped past her ears and hung in her face, red and loose. His left arm ached where it should have been.

The memories pulled harder, tangled themselves in his hair and weighed down his arm and screamed at him. He didn't want them. He didn't want to think about it, about her, because they'd been two machines trying to turn into people, and that wasn't how things were supposed to work, and the only reason they'd softened each other's metal edges was because they broke the edges off in jagged chunks.

Still, he must have slipped into the memories, because for moment it was all red and black and fists and boots and screams and stupid, stupid promises in whispered Russian and then there was a tug on his wrist and he blinked, struggling back to Natasha.

"There. Go ahead and have at it." He glanced down at his neatly-wrapped right fist and nodded. "Take it easy, okay, James?"

"I'll try," he said gruffly. "Now get out." He refused to get angry at himself for being harsh, although a part of him cringed as she frowned, nodded, and left.

He turned to face the punching bag, took a few breaths, and started striking.

Soon the sounds of his feet and fist hitting the bag filled his ears, solid and loud and heavy. There wasn't anything else, and he was okay with that.

Only then the memories came back, like sharks, hungry and _why wouldn't they leave him alone_. All that evidence they'd laid out so clinically to the lawyers earlier, the pictures of the chair and the cryo-chamber and his arm and files naming off the damaged bits of his brain and the list of his trigger words they'd compiled and Rumlow and Russia and Stockholm Syndrome and conditioning and his own accounts and _all of it there_. All of it except the pieces he wouldn't or couldn't tell them about, all of it except the important things.

_"Shoot him, Soldat!"_

_"I can't! I can't, I… I… won't, I can't, you can't make me."_

_The old man cowered further away from him, scrambling up against the wall, fingers splayed out over the cold cement. The Soldier couldn't do this, he didn't remember why, but this was bad. This wasn't right._ Hydra _was bad, not right._

_"Damnit, I won't! Go to Hell!"_

_They shot the man. Arm, other arm, shoulders, stomach, chest, head. He was screaming and then he was dead. His blood spattered the wall, red and sick and so much of it and he crumpled and the Soldier realized – no, Bucky, I'm Bucky, that's my name, I'm dying – he had been screaming the whole time too._

_"You do as we say, understood?"_

_He was still screaming. Someone hit him in the face and he turned on them, automatic, screaming turning into an angry snarl because this was_ wrong.

_"Soldat, stop this now!"_

_"I'm not your goddamn Soldier," he growled, and he was aware of his hands around someone's neck and squeezing, the metal arm unstoppable, until three sets of hands grabbed him and hauled him away, his left arm gone dead._

_"Make a record of this, Krushchev. Send it to Zola. Perhaps he will have more insight into how we can keep the programming intact."_

_"Go to Hell! You hear me? I'm not your Soldier, I'm not gonna do this! Tell Zola he can go to Hell!"_

James stopped hitting the punching bag, swaying, and stared around him, lost for a moment. He was in Avengers Tower, right? He was. He had to be. He looked down at his hands – hand. The protective tape around it grounded him a little. Natasha had wrapped his hand for him because he couldn't. He didn't have a metal arm anymore, he wasn't in combat gear, and there wasn't a gun in sight. He took a deep breath and stepped away from the swinging punching bag.

"Jarvis," he said, evenly.

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes?" Sometimes James thought for sure the AI sounded concerned. This was one of those times.

"Where's Clint?"

"Mr. Barton is upstairs in the kitchen talking to Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson."

James nodded and left the gym, half running. He wanted to see Clint. Clint wasn't from before, and maybe he would be someone safe to talk to. He wasn't nearly as okay with seeing Murdock, but he felt unsteady enough that he was willing to ignore that.

Sure enough, Clint was lounging easily against the counter, twirling an arrow between his fingers as he talked to Murdock and Nelson. The blind lawyer was standing very straight and almost on guard, nodding occasionally, while Nelson looked a good deal more comfortable, if still a little overawed.

"Clint." James frowned as all three men looked at him with varying degrees of worry and interest. "I was… I…"

"You need something, James?" Clint asked, and he stepped away from the counter.

"Can we…" What did he even want? "Can we talk?"

"Sure. Can you guys excuse me?" The archer turned and smiled at Murdock and Nelson. "Sorry." Then he hurried forward, clapped a hand on James' right shoulder and steered him away. "What happened?"

James scowled. "How do you know something-?"

"Don't be stupid," Clint snorted, smiling to take away the sting of the words. "You never want to 'talk.' It's like you're allergic to it. Come on, we'll go up to the roof and you can explain."

James followed the agent to the stairs, trying to decide what to say. He didn't want to tell Clint about his flashback, but he didn't exactly want to keep it to himself either. The wind was cool as they stepped outside, a relief to James, who hadn't realized that he was so hot from his workout.

Clint pulled a pair of black sunglasses out of his pocket and settled them on his nose. "Okay, man, what's up?"

James stared down at the roof under his feet, focusing on the wind. Blowing southeast to northwest, maybe ten miles per hour, probably had a downdraft off the edge of the roof. Clint was waiting. Now eleven, eleven and a half miles per hour and warmer. "I had… I remembered something in the gym."

"Yeah?"

James rocked back on his heels and rubbed his hand on his pants. The protective tape on his knuckles made his hand feel stiff but it was grounding him. "They wanted me to kill some old man. I sorta remembered that I was" the words felt shaped wrong coming out of his mouth "still Bucky. I wouldn't, so they killed him instead. Shot him lots of times before they actually ended it."

Clint nodded slowly, his grey eyes growing a little confused. James wasn't sure what he was trying to say anymore. He thought maybe he'd remembered something he didn't want to, though, something he'd been trying to leave forgotten.

_"I'm Bucky."_

_"I'm not your Soldier."_

"I fought them. I choked somebody, I think."

Clint nodded again. "I'm sorry."

James sighed and dipped his head in acknowledgement. He didn't like how people used the word "sorry" to express pity – it didn't make any sense. "I wasn't… when I stopped remembering, when the flashback ended, I mean… I didn't know… I got confused."

"Ah." Clint smiled as understanding dawned. "Gotcha." He dug into his pocket and pulled out one of the flat metal and glass rectangles that Steve and Stark had both, at different times, described to him as a smartphone. James still couldn't believe a phone could be not only portable but small, flat, and lightweight. Clint pressed a button on the side and turned it on, passing it over. James took it, clumsily, in his wrapped hand, and stared at it.

"Has anybody shown you how to use one of those yet?" the archer asked. James could hear the smile in his voice.

"No," he answered, frowning at the glowing screen. Tentatively he swiped his thumb across it and watched the little square pictures be replaced with a different set of square pictures.

"How about I show you? You're gonna have to know how to do this stuff now, you know. Especially if you plan on leaving us after the trial."

James looked up, surprised. Clint was smiling a wry, half-hearted smile. "I could leave?"

"I don't know what the government will decide. But I do know that if it does end up being a possibility for you to go off on your own, you have a lot to learn. So let me show you how that works."

James glanced at the device in his hand, back at Clint, then nodded slowly. "Okay."

They spent the next hour or so before dinner messing with the phone, and James didn't think he understood any of it still, but the activity chased away the memories of Russia and Natalia and old men, replacing them with half-a-dozen terms and phrases he didn't understand but that he was determined to learn, because this was something to do to hold the memories at bay.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. :) Today is Veteran's Day, so I thought it was important that I upload a chapter today for our Brooklyn Boys, the rest of the Avengers, and all the service men and women who've actually fought for our country without any superpowers to speak of. Please try to take today to leave politics behind and show some respect for these brave people.
> 
> Speaking of politics, briefly, I'd like to take a second to say, first of all, that I'm here to talk if anyone feels the need, as long as they aren't rude, toxic, or hateful. Secondly, I feel the need to say (because I'm a Christian) that God is still king, he's a helluva lot bigger than Trump, and he can work anything for good. Trump's values aren't God's and they never will be.
> 
> Incidentally, I highly recommend the author I quoted at the beginning of the chapter. Her book "The Impossible Knife of Memory" is extremely good and addresses depression, PTSD, and other things from an interesting POV. The title of this chapter refers to the title of that book. She also wrote the books "Speak" and "Wintergirls" which I love. If you like this fic, I think you'd really like her books.
> 
> AO3 READERS: You are finally caught up with my FF.net readers! From now on chapter will come a lot slower because I have no more pre-written chapters to gift to you. Thank you for bearing with me!
> 
> Please review! Love you all! Stay safe!


	35. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The difference between forgetting and not remembering is big enough to drive an eighteen-wheeler through." - Laurie Halse Anderson, 'The Impossible Knife of Memory'

Murdock and Nelson only spent a few more hours at the Tower before deciding to leave. Murdock managed to procure a promise from Bucky that they would sit down privately and discuss the case. Steve had no idea how Bucky actually felt about that decision because the assassin had vanished shortly after the issue was discussed. He wanted to ask JARVIS where Bucky was, but decided that that was violating Bucky's privacy too much. Their situation was no longer so precarious that Bucky needed to be constantly monitored - he was very unlikely to take off on his own at this point and there was minimal danger of him hurting anyone else. Steve was a little afraid Bucky would pick up some self-destructive habits and coping mechanisms, but so far that hadn't happened. He was choosing to be optimistic about it. They would worry about issues only if they arose, not before.

Steve found himself, on this particular afternoon, with nothing to do - Natasha was off shopping with Pepper (when he had first met her, she hadn't seemed the type to do something so ordinary), Sam had retreated to his suite again, and Thor was who-knew-where doing who-knew-what. He wasn't sure where everyone else was, but he let out a long sigh and headed to the elevator to visit the labs.

He figured it would make sense to make more of an effort to be on good terms with Tony - he and the billionaire didn't have a good relationship, and considering the fact that the Avengers seemed to be a more permanent team than Steve had expected, it would be... prudent to get along better with Tony.

When Steve got to the lab, he saw Tony hard at work at something, loud music just barely making it through the glass walls and door. He was working on something on a holographic screen, something that looked oddly like a... uniform. A red, white, and blue uniform. Suddenly Tony swiped the screen, and the uniform vanished. Then the door slid open, Tony's music hitting Steve's ears full force.

"Hey. Spangles!" Tony hollered, waving. Steve stepped into the lab, unsure if he was supposed to have seen the uniform or not. "What do you want?"

Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to work out what to say. He decided honesty was the best approach. "I was bored so I thought I'd come see what you were up to."

Tony snorted. "Gotcha. I'm just working on a few updates for JARVIS." He snapped his fingers and his music decreased in volume to background noise.

Steve raised an eyebrow. So he wasn't supposed to have seen Tony's project. "It didn't look like that to me. Unless you plan to dress JARVIS up in a patriotic combat uniform."

Tony froze, mouth slightly open, then swore and glared at the ceiling. "JARVIS not again! What about the concept of surprise do you not understand?"

JARVIS made no answer.

"When did you get so sassy, anyway?" Tony grumbled to Steve. "You're not supposed to have a sense of humor."

Steve bristled a little but was still too amused and curious to be really annoyed. "So what was that?"

Tony shrugged, almost sheepishly, and tapped at the air, pulling the images back up. "A patriotic combat uniform, like you said. For you."

Steve laughed, but, looking at the designs, he was both impressed and a little confused. The suit looked both functional and, well, cool, and Tony was making it for him. As a surprise. Steve glanced at Tony and caught an almost nervous look in the man's eyes, a hopeful, anxious posture like he wasn't sure he wanted to know what Steve thought of the project.

As if that wasn't strange enough, Steve noticed a few other, more technical designs alongside the first, which seemed to indicate that Tony was also making him gauntlets and something to do with magnets.

He hesitated, unsure what to say. He knew Tony wasn't as selfish as he'd once accused him of being, but this wasn't at all what Steve had come to expect from the billionaire playboy. He forced himself to say something before Tony could think he hated it. "That's awesome, Tony. It's a helluva lot better than my old one."

Tony lit up like a Christmas tree, his eyes taking on some of that crazy glint that Steve was more used to. "Right? That thing was weird. I blame Phil. Anyway, I guess since JARVIS is a spoil-sport you can help me figure this out because I don't know what kind of aesthetic you want. I have like five different designs and I need you to explain some things to me for your gauntlets."

Steve laughed again, trying not to show how much the gesture actually meant to him. Tony would make fun of him for it. But damn, it had been a really long time since someone had done something for him just to be nice - well, maybe not _that_ long, but it felt good. Tony was showing off his designs and rambling on about the gauntlets, asking random questions about the way Steve threw his shield. When Steve was actually able to tell him relative angles and distances, he gave the Captain a narrowed-eyes look. "You've been holding out on me, Capsicle."

"Well, so have you," Steve snorted, gesturing at the designs. "Did you do stuff for everyone else?"

"Yeah, couple of little trinkets."

Tony's "little trinkets" were the coolest things Steve had seen in a while, although he didn't say so. A part of him still couldn't believe that Tony Stark, America's bad boy superhero, Howard Stark's son, was doing something this nice for everyone without ulterior motives.

"You know, your dad never would have done anything this thoughtful," Steve mused, trying to be humorous. To his surprise, Tony responded flippantly, closing down his designs and shaking his head.

"Nah, cuz my old man was a selfish bastard," Tony said. His voice was surprisingly bitter, and Steve winced. Sensitive subject, then. "He wasn't a stand-up guy like me."

Steve hesitated, fidgeting, then said a lame, "Sorry." He wanted to ask what had made Tony so angry at Howard, but that might be insensitive and also none of his business.

"No biggie, Capsicle. Wanna see your pal's arm?" Tony said breezily. He looked and sounded like his normal self again: snarky, cheerful, relaxed, incredibly obnoxious. Steve wondered if maybe that "normal self" was all just a front. If that was the case, then he'd proved himself to be just about the biggest idiot this side of the Atlantic.

"Yeah, sure."

The genius led him to a corner workable with a tangle of metal and wires propped up on it. The metal pieces were tiny and detailed, and when Steve got a better look he realized that it was, in fact, an arm. The metal frame was still in three pieces and one of the fingers was missing, but it was an arm.

"I'm still trying to get hold of some vibranium for a fightin' hand, but this is titanium and will make a good regular arm," Tony explained. "Bruce and I are working on a synthetic skin that will look and act like real skin but it's tricky - neither of us are qualified. We're thinking of trying to bring in another expert to help."

"Sounds good," Steve said, still analyzing the wiring thoughtfully. It looked complicated and heavy but he assumed that Tony knew what he was doing.

"Is Simmons fitting in?" he asked.

Tony grinned. "Are you kidding? She's great. Except for that thing she does where she sends a report back to Coulson every week. But I like her."

"Oh good." Steve looked over the arm again. "Will this work as well as his old one?"

"I don't call myself a genius for nothing, Rogers," Tony said smugly. "This will work better."

"How?"

Tony gave him a deadpan raised eyebrow and a smirk. "What, you think you can keep up with the tech?"

"Try me," Steve snapped. He wasn't in the mood to be made fun of for his age - he did his research. This was an age of technology, which meant a good soldier learned the basics. Or maybe a little more than the basics.

"Fine." Tony pulled up more schematics. The main image was a shoulder with a prosthetic arm on it - when Tony tapped the image, it split into four separate parts. "These are the main components," he explained. "Now, to the best of our knowledge, Bucky's arm didn't get... cut off as high up as it is now. The nerves that originally went to that part of his arm obviously weren't exactly working anymore, so Hydra went up and cut it off at the shoulder joint. That's where our info got sketchy, because I'm still not sure how they managed the connection so well with the technology they had. But what Bruce and Simmons and I worked out is that we can actually fuse the nerves with the wires to control the arm. We'll build a sleeve to fit over his shoulder that hooks up to his nerves and has a socket where we can fit his arm, that way we can switch out the style for fighting or every day."

Tony did jazz hands and swiped right, bringing up a simulation of some kind. To Steve, it looked like string being shot with a laser, but he figured that probably wasn't what it was. At least so far he was keeping up.

"This is where it gets technical, and experimental," Tony said, frowning. "This is a technology that a lot of scientists have been experimenting with. It's using lasers to actually repair nerves and tissue damage, and it's faster and less painful than stitches. Typically this is done with a special binding liquid to show the laser where to do the repairs. Unfortunately that takes a lot of detail work and isn't perfect. Fortunately, Simmons and Bruce are geniuses when presented with the right tools." From there Tony launched into a long-winded explanation full of technical terms that Steve just barely understood. He finished with a flourish and a "You get any of that, Cap?"

"So..." Steve said carefully. "You're using a highly experimental, intuitive laser system to bind his nerves to tiny wires, which only works because the brain is going to be fooled into believing that the nerves and the wires are made of the same stuff, which you're going to make happen by reprogramming that part of his peripheral and central nervous system."

Tony blinked. "Actually... Yeah. Pretty much. Sounds crazy."

"Insane."

"You okay with that option?"

"Do I have a better one?" Steve hated the idea. It sounded impossible, crazy, dangerous, and absolutely genius.

"Not right now, no," Tony said. "Unless you wanna go back in ice for another seventy years and come back to better technology. Then you can bore my son with your ancient morals and give your buddy a new arm risk free, no big deal."

Steve just sighed and shook his head. "You better try to explain the process to Bucky. He has to decide, ultimately. I don't make his decisions for him."

Tony clapped loudly a few times, smirking. "Bravo! Good speech!"

Steve shook his head, grinning. "So can I look at those uniform designs again?"

"Absolutely, Spangles." The genius rubbed his hands together. "America is getting a new look. I like it."

Steve didn't mind it himself.

* * *

James didn't like or trust Matt Murdock. He wasn't sure about a lot of things, but this thing he was. And yet, when the lawyer came to him, by himself, and asked him in the politest possible way to be allowed to have a talk with him in private, James begrudgingly agreed. He didn't want to – he was tired of talking about his situation and tired of talking about what had happened, but Murdock was very convincing. Which was probably a good thing, since Murdock was going to be trying to talk people into letting James live.

They'd scheduled the conversation for a few days later in James' own suite (which had received a makeover since he'd moved in and now felt like a home instead of a cell), and Murdock had asked him to be prepared to answer questions about his feelings during the seventy years he'd been with Hydra as well as questions about what he remembered and whether he really couldn't help what he'd done.

James knew what he was supposed to do in court. He was supposed to talk about how awful he felt now about all those deaths, about how he never would have done those things if he'd been awake. He also knew that he was supposed to try to convince everyone that he'd been utterly unable to escape Hydra's brainwashing.

Neither of those things felt right. The first because it was a lie – it wasn't as if he was unused to lying, it was just that it was a lie that shouldn't have to be. If he was a good person, if he was a person like Steve or Natasha or Stark or even Murdock he _would_ be horrified. If he was Bucky, he would be horrified. But he wasn't and he didn't know if he should be guilty for that or relieved.

The second because true, he probably had been helpless, but he didn't want to have been. He found no solace in having been without choice. He'd done what he'd done and the memories were his, so he would like to know that he'd at least fought them a little.

_He did. He fought until the fighting hurt more than their torture, until one day he woke up and forgot what fighting meant._

He still wouldn't let himself remember everything. He knew he was going to have to.

He couldn't.

Murdock was disappointingly punctual to their meeting. The lawyer didn't bring his partner, which James had specifically asked for – not because he didn't like Nelson but because he wanted to be able to get a read on Murdock without the interference. Murdock had suggested that that might be harder for him, but James didn't compromise.

James refused to meet Murdock in the Tower living room, but waited in his suite until Jarvis informed him that his guest had arrived.

"Let him in, Jarvis," he ordered. He still wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to talk to the AI.

His suite door slid open, and Murdock hesitated a second before swinging his striped stick forward and tapping it against the doorway and wall, then stepping inside. "Sergeant Barnes?"

James realized that since Murdock couldn't see him, he'd have to be more verbal than he typically was. "Over here," he said brusquely, stepping closer.

"Ah. Hello." Murdock smiled disarmingly. "How are you?"

James _hated_ trying to make small talk. "Tired," he grunted. "You wanna sit down?"

The lawyer laughed. "Sure. Sorry." He didn't move, and James groaned inwardly – he was going to have to try to get Murdock to a seat. Thankfully, the other man seemed to understand his discomfort. "Here, I'll take your elbow and you can lead me to a chair. Just tell me when to sit down."

James awkwardly walked over and stuck out his right elbow, nudging Murdock with it. He felt stupid when Murdock chuckled before getting a hold of his arm. He didn't have much furniture in his suite, he realized, just a couch and an armchair. Uncertainly, he led Murdock to the couch and maneuvered him so his legs were against the couch. "You can sit down now," he said.

"Thank you, James," Murdock said calmly, sitting down and carefully finding, then leaning his cane against, the arm of the couch. James padded over to the armchair and sat down too. "Would you mind terribly if I recorded this conversation? I can't take notes conveniently right now because Mr. Stark wouldn't allow me to bring in my laptop."

"Pardon me, Mr. Murdock, but I'm afraid that recording your conversation with Sergeant Barnes would be violating Mr. Stark's security and privacy protocols, therefore I must ask that you do without. I apologize for the inconvenience," Jarvis broke in, voice cool but sympathetic.

James stifled his sigh of relief – Murdock may not be able to see him, but he knew that there were tells other than visual ones.

"Alright, of course." Murdock didn't look pleased, but he surrendered the point easily enough. James decided that that was suspicious. "Now, I'm going to ask you some invasive questions, Sergeant Barnes – can I call you James?"

"No."

"Okay. Well, I'm going to ask you some questions which might seem very pointed or which you might not want to answer, but in order for me to understand what kind of case to build and what the weaknesses in our case are, I need to have these questions answered."

James could feel nervous energy building in his stomach, his heart speeding up, his palms getting sweaty. Automatically he started modulated his breathing, letting himself slip into an old familiar mindset: no feelings, no emotions, no fear – just the mission. He hated having to do that, but he had to be clearheaded for this conversation. Besides that, he could feel the memories trying to grab him again, but this time he wouldn't let them. Not again; last time they'd hurt too much.

Murdock leaned back on the couch (possibly trying to create a feeling of relaxation and familiarity) and folded his hands in his lap (a fairly inviting posture but one that allowed more control than open hands). "So what is your first memory of your time with Hydra?"

James didn't overthink the question – it was a risky one and would make him think about things he didn't want to think about – and shrugged. "I don't know. Do you mean before or after I fell off the train?"

"Before would be a good starting place. You were with them before?"

"Yeah."

Murdock waited a moment, probably expecting more information, then sighed and asked his next question. "What happened when they captured you the first time?"

James debated how much to say. Murdock didn't seem willing to drop a topic just because he gave an evasive answer. "The 107th division went on a short mission. They were supposed to get in, strike hard and fast, and get back out. It didn't go like that at all. They got attacked by Hydra - only they just thought they were more Nazis. Hydra had some advanced weaponry, and they didn't have to kill many of the division before we surrendered." He paused, thinking. "They took us back to a base and locked us up in cages. There were hundreds of other soldiers there. They kept us in those cages for a long time – they didn't feed us at all. Just gave us water and left us."

He didn't volunteer more information because the rest of events after that was fuzzy or not there at all. Even the things he'd mentioned weren't very clear – intentionally.

Murdock nodded thoughtfully. "Did they start brainwashing you right away? Was that what all the prisoners were for, guinea pigs?"

"No." James was struggling to hang onto his calm. He had to answer Murdock, he'd agreed to this conversation, and if he couldn't answer these questions he'd never get out of here. He took a long, slow breath to try to hide how he was trembling. "Just some of them. Him- Me. I wouldn't just shut up, I wouldn't sit down. Had to act like an idiot, I guess, yelling all the time, being a nuisance. They didn't feed us because they wanted us weak so they knew who the fighters were. I fit the bill just right."

_"Not that way. He's one of Zola's. Here, give him here."_

James clenched his fist hard.

"So you were one of the ones strong enough to keep defying them, and that's why they started the process?" Murdock sounded pleased, although still sympathetic. James didn't ask why – he was too distracted by the memories surging past the walls he'd erected to keep them at bay to wonder about Murdock's tone much.

"Yeah."

_His legs felt like buckling but they had been for days. He could ignore that. He didn't know why he was being singled out from the rest but by God he'd make them remember him. They were probably going to kill him because he'd been so much trouble – he didn't know what the other prisoners were wanted for._

_"Where we goin'?" he asked. The guards didn't answer him. "Man, you fellas are real quiet. Is it the masks, do those make it hard to talk?"_

_"Shut up."_

"James?"

"Sorry." James shook his head. His hand was clamped around the chair cushion. He let go. "What did you ask me?"

"If this is upsetting to you, we can stop for now," Murdock said gently.

James wanted to stop, desperately. He wanted to end the conversation and never open this Pandora's box again. But he had to be able to do this sooner or later. He could make it, he could. "No. No, I'm fine. What did you ask me?"

"What did they do?"

Everything.

James sat on his hand to keep from fidgeting.

_"Shut up? You sound like my little sister when she was mad at me. Real scary."_

_One of the guards hit him in the jaw, but Bucky didn't mind so much. He was annoying them. If he was good at anything, it was being a pain in the ass._

Not good. "A lot of stuff. First they… first they…" He stopped, pressed his hand to his head because he couldn't _stop thinking_. "I don't… They took me away, then… the experimenting…"

_"Wow, was that s'posed to hurt, doll?" he smirked._

_The guards went back to being quiet and hauling him down the corridor. He considered punching one, but he wasn't that great of a fighter and they were armored. That would just hurt his hand and he wouldn't get anything out of it._

_They stopped him at a metal door with no handles, and for a moment, Bucky felt really afraid. But dying would be easy, it wasn't like he was gonna miss anything anyway. It was a war and he'd never wanted to fight in it; it had always been stupid Steve who wanted to get his ass kicked. Not him._

_The door hissed open, and Bucky surprised his guards by stepping cheerfully forward towards the opening._

"James? Hey, James, listen to me."

He tried, but he couldn't. Zola was there, and the metal hallways, and Hydra's masks and needles.

_The guards' hands on his arms halted his sauntering walk early, but he managed to keep his cool, only casting them annoyed looks. "We goin' in or what?"_

_They walked him through the doorway. His heart beat a staccato rhythm against his spine. He saw a table, silver and flat with thick black straps hanging loose at the corners and sides. Vaguely he registered several more Nazi guards and a few white-coated men like doctors._

_"What's this, Thanksgiving dinner?" he asked. His mouth was dry – he told himself that was because he hadn't had a drink in a few hours._

_"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, yes?" The speaker was a little man standing in front of the others, round face, round belly, round glasses, tiny eyes. He had a slithery, lizard-like voice. Bucky hated him instantly: he'd used his middle name._

_"Yeah, but people who want me to like 'em call me Bucky," he said, trying unsuccessfully to cross his arms. The men at his elbows didn't allow him to. "Course I wouldn't like you much even if you called me that, since you're a Nazi bastard and all."_

_"I do not want you to like me," the man said, gesturing at the table. "I simply want you to do as I say."_

_His captors forced him towards the table, and Bucky decided he'd had enough and started kicking and swinging like a drowning cat. It didn't work so well, just hurt his knuckles, but he managed to slip one arm free and take a swing at the right guard's crotch. That shot paid off, which got him just enough room to yank his other arm out of that guard's grasp and charge for the round lizard man. Then something heavy and unyielding was rammed into the back of his skull and he groaned, slumping to the floor. They caught him and lifted him, then he flinched as cold metal pressed against his throbbing head and bare feet. He tried to struggle again when the restraints tightened around his limbs, but he was too weak to do so, and more guards had joined the first two to hold him down. The straps bit hard into his skin through his clothes._

_"Sergeant Barnes, the Americans have succeeded in creating an enhanced individual with extreme strength and metabolism. You are to be one of many experimental super soldiers which Hydra will use to further their goals." It was the small man's voice again. He had greedy little pig eyes._

_"Super soldiers? Sounds fun, what's that mean?" It didn't sound fun._

_"You will see." The fat man wasn't very good at jokes. Bucky's throat hurt and the light (it came from above him and it was pale orange) stung his eyes. He was terrified. He'd never asked for this, all he wanted was to get home safe or die, he didn't want to be a cripple or a madman. And he didn't really like the sound of "enhanced individual" or "experimental" either._

_Oh God._

_"We will inject you with this serum, which is intended to make your muscles increase in efficiency and strength. It will hurt."_

_"Well, thanks for the warning, pal, I- Ow." The needles jabbed into his arms and legs, and Bucky gave the doctors with the needles an angry glare. They ignored him. He imagined this must be what a cow felt like when the butchers stepped up to kill it. "I don't feel anything. That was stupid, what-" He cut off in a gasp as everything started to_ hurt _. He put all his energy into staying silent, but he felt like he was going to tear in half. The restraints dug tighter into his skin, and his muscles itched and burned like they were on fire. He was burning and he couldn't see and was that him yelling? Probably. And suddenly the world disappeared for him and the pain and the light and he floated._

_"The effects of the serum only lasted for three hours. We must try again. Perhaps the radiation needs to be higher."_

_Try again? Bucky couldn't do that again, he couldn't._

_But he did. They didn't take him off the table again (although they gave him water at regular intervals) and they kept sticking the needles in him and he kept burning and at some point it was too much and he retreated far away, repeating his name and rank like a mantra even though they hadn't interrogated him. Because thank God and the saints and angels, they had no idea that the Steve Rogers they spoke of when they compared notes was his best friend in the world. But he was still burning and it didn't matter that they didn't ask him for anything, he was afraid he'd try to give it to them just to save himself from more of the experiments._

"James. James. Here, man, you want some water? James, you're in your suite at Avengers' Tower. You're safe now. There you are. You were talking to Matt, you remember?"

James blinked, grimacing, and took the bottle of water that Wilson (when had Wilson got there?) was holding out to him. He blinked and took stock of the situation.

Murdock was still sitting on the couch, brow deeply furrowed. Wilson was crouched next to him at a respectful distance, eyes concerned but not pitying. "You back?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry." James rubbed his face.

"No problem at all. I'm not surprised you had some trouble." Wilson nodded easily. "Maybe you better take a break now, huh?"

"No. I gotta be able to do this." James' head was a rush of memories now, swirling past the dam he'd inadvertently destroyed. It was too late for him to stop them all, but he'd committed to this. He felt weak and stupid and something inside him felt like it was going to crack once he was alone, but right now he had to finish this damn interview so he could get Murdock out of his hair for a long time.

"James-" Wilson said, voice uncertain.

"My decision, Wilson," James snapped. "I didn't even answer his last question. I'll get it done. I have to at some point. It might as well be here in my own suite, not in some courtroom."

"Okay."

James told them what had happened in his flashback, pretending that that would be the last question. Pretending that there would be no more questions today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. No, that was not a nice chapter. I'm sorry. The next one will be worse, I'm just warning you. We will be seeing more of Matt's interview with Bucky, which will contain at least one more flashback, a lot of bad memories and angst, and some violent content. Nothing worse than what I've already written probably, but I will be asking for some suspension of disbelief in upcoming chapters (I'll explain why later).
> 
> We are nearly to the end of this, which means that soon I'll be starting my second fic in the series (title to be announced). The second half of the series will be fundamentally different in some ways WHICH ARE VERY IMPORTANT: While it will still be dealing with Bucky's memories and PTSD, the primary focus will shift from "can the Winter Soldier remember he's not Hydra and that he's pals with Steve and that he's Bucky" to Bucky Barnes reacting to what he's done. This means that now I will be addressing depression, self-harm, suicide attempts/thoughts, survivors guilt, and other difficult topics. These will be triggering in different ways and while I feel slightly more qualified to write on these topics, they are in a way much heavier and more real. However, the little bright side to this switch is that we will get more Bucky sass, Steve+Bucky friendship, battles with Hydra, a couple haircuts, Steve+Tony friendship, and attempts to cope with the modern world.
> 
> This story has never been easy nor has it handled difficult topics lightly, so I'll have to assume that you're all already on board with that and more or less prepared for the heavy stuff I have to dish out.
> 
> The laser surgery Tony mentions is actually a current experimental thing - some scientists have discovered how to make sutures with laser instead of actual stitches, which takes only minutes and is much less painful. Obviously though, most of my science was bullshit technobabble.
> 
> If any of you would like to give me suggestions for part two of this story, you can do so now before I start really thinking about the plot of that half of the fic. ;) I may not use all suggestions but I will try my best.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for continuing to read! Love you all.


	36. Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I hear their screams, their demands, whenever I see shadow. They haunt me, scramble for my mind, wishing to claim my sanity." – Brandon Sanderson, 'Edgedancer'

With Wilson there and a bottle of water in his hand, the conversation was a little easier. Not by much, granted, but James felt a little more grounded and the questions felt more manageable. For a while, he simply explained to them what had happened before Steve came and got him out, most of which he remembered in a blur of one painful experiment after another.

"I didn't know it had worked," he said, staring at his knees. "They were talking about the last attempt more optimistically than they usually did, but I couldn't really register what was going on. Too out of it, I guess."

Murdock nodded slowly. "But it did work?"

James laughed humorlessly. "Well, I survived losing my arm and falling off a train into a canyon, so I'd say yeah."

"After you were captured the second time, did they keep experimenting on you?"

"I'm not sure." James didn't actually remember, or at least, he didn't want to. He knew the Russians had taken him after he fell, and that by that time they knew that he knew Steve, but what they did to him was still blessedly indistinct.

"Okay." The lawyer removed his glasses. His eyes, blank, drifted down as he folded up his glasses and pushed a hand through his hair. "Was that when they started brainwashing you?"

"No. They interrogated me first. About Steve." He had been avoiding that memory too, but there it was, heavy in the front of his mind. They'd continued with their experiments and they'd begun brainwashing him, and every day they asked him to tell them about Captain Steve Rogers and the other Howling Commandos. He'd retreated into his own mind and clung to the phrase "I don't know him" until that was all he let himself think. He told the lies until he almost believed them himself. Until they came and showed him a newspaper headline: "Captain America Gone Missing in Arctic Ocean."

"Your friend is dead," they said.

James remembered, too, the way that hurt more than anything else, the way that that American newspaper told him his best friend was gone.

"Did you tell them anything?"

Had he? He thought about it, flinching a little from some of the memories (they had wiped him for the first time, he'd laughed at the chair but his stomach hurt like no dinner, and when he woke up everything was blank until they asked him more questions). "Nothing important." That answer came with a great deal of satisfaction. "Even after they told me he was dead, I just coughed up old stuff. Or lies."

"Geez, no wonder he wanted you back so much," Wilson said, eyebrows raised. "You're a loyal best friend, man."

"If I had told them, it wouldn't have changed how they treated me any," James said shortly. It wouldn't have. Even if that logic hadn't really helped him when things were the worst, he knew they'd have kept on beating him and he'd have broken sooner than he did.

Because those memories were back now too, about when the cracks started appearing. He'd stopped physically struggling before he knew Steve died – once he knew that, though, it got harder to hang on. He didn't have anyone to defend anymore, just himself, and he'd never been the best at that.

James pressed his hands to his head, and Wilson touched his shoulder firmly. "You alright?"

He didn't reply to that – just shrugged.

"You still with us?"

"Yeah, I'll be good."

"So when they were brainwashing you, how long do you think it took before you stopped fighting back – from the time you were captured?"

James only had a vague idea of that – he'd had no way of telling time, and he wasn't sure what Murdock meant by fighting. He gave his best guess. His head hurt. "I remember a mission in 1950. It was a test mission, I think. I went out with a strike team, but when it came time to shoot the man, I don't know, I froze… They brought me back in and wiped me again."

Before that, he'd killed other people in controlled situations. They presented him with innocent victims and he shot them, stabbed them, choked them, whatever they told him. It was supposed to harden him but it didn't quite work that way. Until later.

"So five years after they got you back?" Murdock nodded slowly. James really didn't like the way his blind eyes stared.

"Yeah."

"Good, good. I can work with that. Now… I need to know this, but…Was there ever a time when your conscience told you to stop and you didn't?"

James looked down. "No." _Yes_. "I mean… I… It was…"

Everybody has a breaking point.

"James, stay with me. You're safe."

He wasn't. Not from this.

_I'm Bucky, I'm Bucky Barnes, I can't, I, I, I…_

_"Kill her, Soldat."_

_I can't._

_"Now!" He saw the stun baton out of the corner of his eye and flinched. He couldn't take any more of this, he couldn't. They would wipe him again. They would do everything over and over again no matter how many times he tried to fight them. "Zhelaniye." The trigger word helped. It dulled everything, numbed him so his name wasn't his anymore, just a concept. A concept that, finally, he couldn't bear to hold onto anymore. Not in the face of beatings and torture and memory wipes._

_The gun shook, but he aimed it. The gun shook, but he tightened his finger on the trigger and painted the wall red. He was screaming again but he'd stopped being able to feel it or hear it because it hurt so badly. Like losing his arm again._

"James, man, come back."

James buried his face in his hands. He was shaking. "I killed her. I couldn't take it and I shot a woman. After that it fell apart."

Murdock was very gentle, more so than James had thought him capable of. "When?"

"I don't know." He really didn't. It was just something that happened. Something irreversible – when Bucky died.

"You want to tell me about it?" Wilson asked.

"No, I... No." James just wanted to see Steve, if he was honest. Right now, it felt as if the only thing that would really ground him was the Captain's solid, familiar presence. But he also didn't want to admit that, so he sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Can we take a break?"

"Of course. I could use some water myself." Murdock slipped his glasses back on and stood. "Mr. Wilson, would you direct me to the kitchen?"

"Sure," Wilson answered, standing. "You good, James?"

"Yeah. Thanks." James propped his head in his hands and closed his eyes. That was risky. Colors and screams echoed behind his eyelids. And faces. Why did the faces bother him so much now? They were people he'd killed, he'd decided that much a long time ago, but now they haunted him. Now they cried. He didn't want them, he never had. That was why he kept those memories out, because maybe then he could pretend that Bucky wasn't him. Maybe then he could pretend that he hadn't lost anything, that everything had started with Hydra. That he didn't care about everyone he killed.

He didn't. He couldn't. If he let himself care it would break him. James didn't care.

That had to be true.

He opened his eyes and looked over towards his kitchen. Murdock and Wilson were taking quietly, and James sighed. Undoubtedly they were talking about him. He stood, legs tingling from sitting so long, and strode over.

"I'm okay now. You got a lot more questions?"

"Several," Murdock said. "Our case is pretty good, I think – I'll just want to have clearer details on some points."

"Then let's get them over with," James said. He wanted to get out of there – or, really, get them out. This was his suite, after all.

They all sat back down, Murdock and Wilson on the couch, James on the armchair, and Murdock leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Why was it that Steve was able to remind you who you were and no one else could?"

That was easy. "I knew him. I hadn't seen anyone who meant anything to me, personally, in years, except him. Besides that, Pierce wasn't maintaining me correctly for some reason. He was never as good of a handler as the Russians, but around the time he first sent me after Steve he'd been ignoring protocol, wiping me when he shouldn't have had to, not feeding me, not giving me enough intel for missions... It was like he stopped caring if I worked right. So the programming was already suffering when I saw Steve."

"Why do you think he wasn't... maintaining you as he had previously?"

"I scared him." James remembered realizing early on that for some reason, the Russian branch of Hydra hadn't properly briefed Pierce. Possibly it was the result of a rivalry or simply an emergency transfer, but Pierce hadn't ever grasped the purpose or reliability of the Winter Soldier. He'd used the Soldier like just another operative, rather than the high-caliber machine he was. The Asset was supposed to be a ghost, but instead he was used for any and all missions Pierce thought him capable of. Pierce never seemed to quite trust his programming, and towards the end, as Project Insight loomed, he must have worried that the Soldier would ruin his plans and so tried to sabotage his own weapon. "He didn't believe I was really going to obey, so he tried to undercut my capabilities to protect himself."

"Should he have been afraid? Would you have turned on him, given the chance?"

"No. He was my handler." The Soldier had never had a choice.

"And you obeyed your handler absolutely?"

"Yes. Anyone else in Hydra could have ordered me to do something and I would've, but my handler was always the highest authority."

"Alright. Once they knew you were compliant did they continue with the poor treatment or ease up a little?"

"I... No. No, it got worse. I just stopped caring."

"Worse how?"

"More beatings. Training me not to hesitate or flinch, training me how to lie, training me to go undercover. There was always a mistake to beat me over. Then they found out they had to keep wiping me regularly because, Simmons said, my serum heals my brain better and faster than it'd do on its own. And, well, sometimes they just wanted to have some fun."

He really wanted Steve now. He still didn't say so.

"I'm sorry," Murdock said quietly. His jaw was tense, his forehead furrowed; James wasn't sure what to attribute that to. Anger at Hydra seemed the most logical assumption, but James didn't trust the man that much.

"Yeah, well, it happened." James swallowed a long drink of water and grimaced. "Can't do anything about it."

"Just a couple more questions for now, Sergeant."

James nodded.

"Did it ever feel good? Did you ever enjoy your missions?" Murdock almost sounded apologetic for having to ask that question, but logically James understood why he did.

The Soldier's only concept for something feeling "good" had been the rare praise from his handlers. Torturing prisoners, killing people, those things hadn't been good or bad. They just were. "No. I wasn't supposed to. I wasn't supposed to enjoy anything."

"Okay, in that case we can be done now, Sergeant Barnes. Thank you for giving me this time with you – I understand it was difficult. If it helps at all, I think that with proper evidence to back up your stories, we can convince everyone of your innocence."

"That would be good," James said, smiling a little.

Murdock stood, again retrieving his stick, and nodded politely. "Good evening, Sergeant."

Wilson stepped up and quietly offered his elbow, maybe sensing that James needed to be alone. "You gonna be okay, James?" he asked.

"I keep telling you guys that's a dumb question," he grumbled.

Wilson hesitated a long moment, then led Murdock out of the suite. James' door slid closed, and he slid down onto the floor, legs giving way.

"Shit," he mumbled. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his arms on them. His head was a mess. He knew if he started thinking about the memories, the flashbacks and the brainwashing and the beatings, he'd never stop. Something felt broken and wrong inside and he didn't know why and it scared him.

"Jarvis, can you get Steve?" he asked, uncomfortable. He felt stupid asking for Steve like they were still friends, like he hadn't been giving the Captain the cold shoulder for weeks now. But everything was falling to pieces and the one thing that he knew was the same anymore was Steve Rogers.

"Of course, Sergeant Barnes," Jarvis said. He sounded concerned again.

James didn't have a notebook nearby to help him sort his memories and he didn't want to get up and find one. He held onto his bottled water and stared at the clear liquid inside it, sloshing it around to distract himself from the faces.

There was a knock on the door that startled him to alertness just before Jarvis told him Steve had arrived. "Let him in," James said, setting down the water.

The door hissed open, then came Steve's usual concerned "James?" That name sounded wrong out of his mouth. "James, where-? Oh." He came around the armchair, scanned the area with a tactician's eyes, then crouched down next to James. "What's wrong? What'd you need?"

That wasn't a question James felt able to answer. "I..." He shook his head, hard. He felt stupid, that's what was wrong. He shouldn't have bothered Steve, this was all a terrible idea, what was he thinking, anyway?

"It's okay, James. Just take a minute, I don't mind," Steve said.

_No, Bucky, I'm Bucky, that's my name._

_I'm Bucky, I'm Bucky Barnes, I can't, I…_

It was all wrong. All broken. He didn't _want_ to be Bucky.

_The trigger word helped. It dulled everything, numbed him so his name wasn't his anymore, just a concept. A concept that, finally, he couldn't bear to hold onto anymore._

It wasn't like that anymore, it wasn't.

The faces screamed at him.

_He was screaming and he could never hear it anymore._

"I'm sorry, I'm just… Sorry, I'm sorry." He was aware he was ignoring Steve but everything was so confused and he _didn't want it._

 _I'm not him. I_ can't _be him. It hurts._

_This was bad. This wasn't right. He was Bucky._

"You don't have to apologize, James, it's fine."

"I'm not-" He stopped. He didn't like the way his heart was beating, he didn't like the way he was thinking.

"Not what?"

"Not him." Not James. Not the Soldier. Not Sergeant Barnes. Bucky. He didn't want to be, he didn't want that guilt and pain and loss, but he didn't like who he was when he wasn't Bucky. He didn't like what happened when he ignored that part of his past.

"I know you aren't Bucky, you keep-"

"No, it's just, I…" He closed his eyes tight and shook his head, angrily pushing his too-long hair away from his face. "I'm Bucky."

"Okay…" Steve sounded really confused. That was kind of funny. Bucky couldn't find it in himself to explain. There was too much happening in his head and he thought he was going to cry. "What… Um, you want me to get you anything? Do anything?"

Bucky laughed shortly and then he was crying again, which was really stupid and really weak and he wanted to hide but there wasn't anywhere to go, so he just buried his face in his arms and tried to stop the stupid tears. Then Steve was awkwardly putting his arms around him, and that was stupid too, only it was also very Steve and just made everything better and worse.

He didn't cry for long – he at least had enough control over himself to manage that. He straightened and scrubbed his face with the heel of his hand, and Steve quickly backed off, looking so bewildered and worried that Bucky almost laughed.

"Sorry," he said.

"I told you, you don't have to be sorry," Steve answered. He shifted a little and rubbed the back of his neck. "So… um… You're Bucky now?"

Bucky shrugged. "Kinda. No. I mean… Yeah." It was too complicated to explain, even to Steve. "I didn't like being James, so I'm not." That was the best he could do.

"Okay." Steve didn't look any less confused, but he did look happier. "How did your talk with Matt go? I'm guessing not great."

"That depends on your point of view," Bucky muttered, picking up his water bottle and finishing the water in it in a few gulps. "It sucked. But now I might be able to survive witnessing in court, so that's great. And I switched names again. Just to confuse everyone one more time."

Steve nodded. He looked like he was barely containing a huge grin. "You want me to leave now, or-?"

"Nah, it's fine." Bucky stood, shakily, and went to throw away his water bottle away. "Clint gave me a laptop to use – I think he got it from Stark. I don't really know how to use it yet, but if you want you could help."

Steve blinked. "Yeah, yeah, I'd be happy to."

"You sure you know how?" Bucky asked, smirking a little. That felt good. A little bit like a lie, but not much. Not like everything else had.

His friend rolled his eyes and stood. "Yes I know how, Buck. I wasn't born yesterday."

"No, you were born one hundred years ago. It's a reasonable question."

Steve sputtered out an indignant reply, grinning, and Bucky let himself smile a little wider. This felt… good. It felt good.

Maybe not right, still, but good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap, folks!
> 
> That's right, Part 1 of this series is OVER! Are you surprised? I am. There were supposed to be a few more chapters but nope, the timing felt right to me so here we are.
> 
> BUCKY'S BACK! This is awesome if psychologically sketchy - bask in the glory for a little while longer. Part 2 (to be entitled But I Did It) will most likely pick up a few days or weeks later with Bucky's arm having been finished and preparations for the trial well underway. There will be at least two more Avengers introduced to our cast of characters and the mess that was Age of Ultron is being happily scrapped (adios Brucenat, OOC Natasha, and dead Pietro).
> 
> If this feels rushed to anyone do let me know - It feels right to me but I may have inadequately explained something or you may just be really confused. :)
> 
> Please review, darlings


	37. Final Author's Note

Good news, my friends! My new story is up, and it is called "But I Did It"! Go to my profile and follow that fic if you want to find out what happens next. This little final chapter is just to let you know what new story to follow, and to leave you with some information on my sources and thank everyone.

My beta Selective scifi junkie has been absolutely TREMENDOUS - all of you give her a round of applause. So has Servant of Fire, who helped me with information regarding PTSD, flashbacks, etcetera. Give her some applause too!

Now is the time to leave me "some questions, a couple of suggestions", about what's coming next, what my plans are, what I should do.

Before anyone asks, no I will not be writing any non-canon ships (Or certain canon ones, *cough Brutasha and Staron cough*). While I would like to write Romanogers and Winterwitch, personally, I'm aware that this story works better as a genfic so that my broader audience doesn't have to deal with a ship they don't like in an otherwise good story. ;) I've read far too many fics where I have to tolerate a pairing I hate, and it's manageable but not great. Plus in such an emotionally charged, heavy fic, I don't have time for a big subplot like that.

Sources:

Quotes:

**Khuri Chandler, Elizabeth.** **_Goodreads._ ** **Goodreads Inc., 2007. Accessed first in April, 2015.**

**Tolkien, J.R.R.** **_The Fellowship of the Ring._ ** **Del Rey, 2012**

**Zusak, Marcus.** **_The Book Thief._ ** **Alfred A. Knopf, 2007.**

**Collins, Suzanne.** **_The Hunger Games_ ** **. Scholastic Inc., 2009.**

**Goldman, William.** **_The Princess Bride._ ** **Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 2007.**

**Lewis, C.S.** **_That Hideous Strength._ ** **Scribner, 2003.**

**Sanderson, Brandon.** **_Arcanum Unbounded: The Cosmere Collection_ ** **. Tor, November 2016.**

_(Organized in order of use/access)_

Information:

**"Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD)."** **_Out of the Fog._ ** **Out of the FOG, 2015.**

**"Daredevil: Personality." Marvel Cinematic Universe Wiki.** **_Wikia_ ** **.**

**"Declarative (Explicit) and Procedural (Implicit) Memory."** **_The Human Memory_ ** **. Luke Mastin, 2010.**

**"Psychogenic Amnesia."** **_The Human Memory_ ** **. Luke Mastin, 2010.**

**"What to Say When You Think Someone is Being Abused."** **_Click to Empower_ ** **. Allstate Foundation, 2014.**

_(There were other sites I used, I don't doubt, but I didn't make note of them at the time, so I have to leave them out. These were the sites I used the most extensively and repeatedly and are good to take a look at if, for whatever reason, you want to write something about these topics. I also used Wikipedia several times – yes that is a valid source, shush – for research on neuroprosthetics and other topics, and my school psychology course for general psych information.)_


End file.
